Lately, I’ve been pondering the concepts of efficiency and productivity, prompted first by a blown headlight bulb and later by my favourite pen. Increased efficiency is different to increased productivity. The things that make machines efficient are not the same things that make people productive.
This morning, I discovered that the dipped beam bulb on the passenger side of my car had blown. Living in the UK and having owned a string of small cars, I’m familiar with the practicalities of maintaining them and I have replaced many bulbs on numerous vehicles. The UK has long had an affinity for compact cars, epitomised by the original Austin Mini Metro. By those standards, my Fiesta is relatively large; however, by modern measurements, it remains a small, compact vehicle. This compactness results in a very efficient use of space in the engine bay.
Over the years, I’ve owned a variety of cars. Larger vehicles generally had more space, which made basic maintenance tasks, such as replacing a blown bulb, much easier. You could reach in, remove the cover, and switch out the bulb. The use of space was inefficient, but the additional room made maintenance straightforward.
In contrast, changing the bulb in my Fiesta is a different story. The efficient use of space means there’s no room for my hand to access the bulb cover directly. I need tools and have to disassemble parts of the car. However, the design is thoughtful. The headlight assembly is secured by just three screws, and while tools are necessary, they are not specialised. This design allows me to quickly remove the entire light assembly, providing the necessary space to work. Though not as convenient as working in a spacious engine bay, it’s an elegant solution. Each light assembly around the car follows this practical design philosophy.
Reflecting on this, I wrote in my journal with my fountain pen—a cherished gift made of brass. Brass isn’t the most efficient material for a pen, but it lends the pen a satisfying heft. I use high-quality ink in a cartridge converter. Because of the pen’s small size and the converter’s inefficiency, it holds only a small amount of ink.
This inefficiency struck me. If the pen held less ink, it would be inconvenient, akin to a glorified scratch pen. If it held more, it would be difficult to use all the ink before it dried out, and I enjoy the ritual of refilling it. The converter holds just enough ink for me to write five pages in my journal. This ritual of writing five pages to empty the pen, only to refill it for tomorrow, is strangely satisfying. It’s an inefficient pen, yet this very inefficiency encourages me to write. I could think of numerous ways to make the pen more efficient, but doing so might diminish my motivation to write.
Efficiency and optimisation are intriguing concepts. In my car, it feels like sensible compromises have been made, and I appreciate the design solutions. My pen, however, feels different. As an object, it is full of inefficiencies, but it’s the effect it has on me that makes me appreciate its worth.
