Recently I had to make a difficult decision.
My VAIO laptop died a year ago and it was still sitting in my office corner, untouched and immobile.
I couldn’t bear to part with it. I wanted to coax it back to life and start our relationship anew. But it was broken beyond repair and I couldn’t let it go.
My VAIO was a burgundy machine, one of the first released by Sony.
I fell in love at first sight. It was competitively priced, could run digital software programs with ease, and was light.
The burgundy laptop accompanied me to presentations, workshops, and conferences. It helped me deliver lectures and collated my teaching materials into pretty icons.
The VAIO travelled on planes, trains, boats, and buses. It moved interstate and escorted me to job interviews.
It provided endless entertainment when I was bored.
People admired the VAIO. My teenage sons fought over it. It became part of the family. It perched on my lap and competed with my overweight Labrador for attention.
Then one awful day, I knocked the VAIO against the side of the car. He machine emitted a loud bang as though its insides had popped. And despite my coaxing, stroking and wishful thinking, it never worked again.
My VAIO lingered another year.
I hoped for a miracle, but it remained lifeless and gathering dust in its little basket in the corner.
My employer gave me a new laptop but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a VAIO.
One day I’d had enough of mourning and realised the VAIO and I must part. I was never going to find closure while it remained.
I took it to the bin and, with a horrible thud, it was gone — hopefully to laptop heaven.
I’Ill never forget that VAIO.