“Paper jam my arse!” said Carl, the Photocopier Whisperer.

He knelt before the eggshell coloured box, and slid a compartment out with the tenderness of an artisan pizza maker drawing handmade dough from a woodfire oven.

“Let us see what the matter is with you,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

He peered inside, placing a smoothing hand on the side of the troubled compartment.

“There is a little something in there,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

His torso turned, and he gripped the outlet tray with a strong but reassuring hand.

“Let us see what we can do about that,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

His fingers edged into the cavity, careful not to brush rollers and ink jets as it guided its way to the rupture.

“Ah,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

On the surface his gripping hand flexed and eased, while within a crumpling echo was emitted.

“Easy does it,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

The art of dragging back a sheet of paper is a detailed one.

“Here is comes,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

To remove a full page one must issue between feeder tracks a balance of pressure and persistence. Pulling against the resistance as a needle from a lion’s paw or a wobbly tooth from a child’s head.

“We have it,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

Out from the opening came a white sheet, which he inspected for tears with the watchful eye of a surgeon.

“That should do it,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

He eased the draw back into the slot, and stroked the panel to press it softly into place, then pressed a button and the contraption bleeped and buzzed with a warm inner glow.

“Fixed,” said the Photocopier Whisperer.

Without waiting for thanks Carl stood, and walked from the room.