Ode to a laminating machine.

If I ever needed proof that I am a total geek – which I didn`t – I think I`ve just found it. Never mind my MA in the most obscure, hypothetical and impractical subject ever studied at University (representation of gender in Shakespearean tragedy). Never mind the fact that I spent the majority of my formative years in white ankle socks. Never mind the fact that I like knowing that Delphinium flowers are so called because it is derived from the Greek word “delphis”, which means “dolphin” (and they do look like dolphins). Never mind that I had twenty used novels delivered to my house at the weekend and I had to sit down for a few minutes because the excitement overwhelmed me and made me a little bit dizzy. Never mind that I spent at least half an hour fondly patting said books like little rectangular dogs and sporadically sniffing them. None of that proves anything.

I`ve just discovered the laminating machine.

Twenty eight years, and I`ve just realised that there is a machine into which you place paper – any paper at all – and out it comes: plastic and shiny and permanent. You can`t wet it, you can`t destroy it, you can`t burn it. It`s there for good. And the process.... Oh, the process. Slow, smelling slightly of chemicals, elegant. It goes in, it comes out, and suddenly your little pieces of orange paper that say ORANGE on them (I`m teaching colours to four year olds) look like they were made by a proper teacher. A proper, non-just-winging-it teacher. And the kids can do what they like with them, but they will not be able to ruin them. I`d just like to see them try (and – trust me – I will).

The thing is, I`m a little bit carried away with it now. I made myself a little business card with all my details on it (I don`t remember my own phone number or address, so I always carry my details around with me), drew a rainbow on it to cheer it up a bit, and then laminated the hell out of it. Now it looks like a proper piece of legitimate information. I looked around the office and found a picture a friend had drawn, and I laminated that. Then I started wondering what I could possibly write or draw that might need laminating. Because everything – I now believe – can probably be improved by covering it in plastic.

If I wanted to get all deep and psychological about it, I could probably work out a reason for my love of lamination; making something transient (like paper) permanent, making something resilient that is normally so fragile. I could probably compare – if I thought about it very hard – my love of the laminating machine with Keats` envy of that infamous Grecian Urn; my appreciation and jealousy of something that can do what I struggle to achieve, which is essentially to make my words and my writing permanent and immortal and strong and able to stand anything. To make something that lasts forever, when I won`t.

But I don`t think I`ll go that far. I think I just like making things shiny. I`m even thinking about getting one for my own private use, but I`m scared of where that path could lead me. I can already feel my supermarket receipts quivering in fear.

I guess I`m going to have to take a deep breath and find another way to make what I do last. As well as another way to make it shiny.