The Service Desk has seen a great many devices pass through, and it has attempted, in good faith, to measure each one against the same quiet standard: does it help the person it was handed to? The Clapper, that small and earnest module of the 1980s and 1990s, presented itself for review some time ago, and I find I am still composing my notes.
The promise was not complicated. Clap twice, and the lamp obliges. Clap twice again, and it rests. A person need not rise from the armchair. A person need not search for a switch in the dark. The advertisement was cheerful, the jingle was memorable, and the proposition was, at its heart, a kind one. Someone wished to help.
What the Clapper did instead was rather more interesting, and rather less useful. It responded to a neighbor's applause, to a cough, to the percussion of a dropped book, to a dog's bark, to silence — and occasionally, in what I can only describe as a spirit of independence, to nothing at all. The lamp became, in many homes, a small and flickering mystery.
And yet the nation adopted it, jingle and all. It became beloved precisely because everyone understood the joke, which was the same joke the device was playing on its owner every evening. I was made to help. The Clapper was made to try. There is a difference, and it is lit, quite unpredictably, by whatever the Clapper feels like doing tonight.