It’s bad enough that I have a brain that . . . well, if you put my brain at one end of the Spectrum of Deadly Danger and a berserker regiment in a nasty temper all bearing freshly-sharpened weapons of individual destruction at the other end, and then tried to decide where a peanut butter sandwich on Wonder bread should be placed . . . it would go nearer the berserker regiment end than the my-brain end, all right? Which this paragraph goes some considerable way toward proving.
So if I forget something important it’s ALWAYS likely that it’s my own stupid disintegrating fault because I am a frelling nincompoop and I drop things constantly* and my brain is made of guacamole.** Which is to say I DO NOT NEED ANY HELP FROM MY TECHNOLOGY ABOUT SCREWING STUFF UP.
Which of course has no impact on present circumstances whatsoever. Pooka keeps insisting that she hasn’t been backed up to The Cloud in years***, so much so that pretty much everything I do on her—text, for example—suffers from extreme pop-up-box-itis, something like this: Hi, are you—BACK ME UP! BACK ME UP! BACK ME UP!—free for the dinosaur safari—BACK ME UP! BACK ME UP! BACK ME UP NOW!—next week? If we—BACK MEEEEEEE UUUUUUUUUP—book now we get a free slushie and a Tyrannosaurus Rex—AREN’T YOU PAYING ATTENTION? I NEED TO BE BACKED UP BEFORE THE HELLTERROR EATS YOUR LAPTOP†—hatband—YOU’LL BE SORRRRREEEEEE ABOUT ALL THOSE UPDATED FILE EMAILS YOU FORGOT TO SEND YOURSELF†† IF YOU DON’T BACK ME UP.†††
Interspersed in these merry japes also are sporadic demands for my Apple ID password. I’m really tired of Apple’s The World Is At Risk By Our Greatness attitude which means they won’t let you reuse a password because WE ALL MIGHT GET HACKED BY PURPLE TENTACLES FROM BETELGEUSE but I would put up with this better if they didn’t periodically decide they don’t like my password and demand I come up with a new one. I used to think this was just my idiot fingers typing ‘Agamemnon’ when I meant ‘Clytemnestra’ but no. Apple clearly produces ALGORITHMS demanding new passwords at intervals that sure come across as random to people like me.
A new low in my tech relationships was reached this past week. One of the things the Sams don’t go out of their way to warn you about when you sign up is that they will be requiring certain admin duties out of you as well as all those hours on telephones. I had an Admin Duty spell this last week which necessitated the sending of emails to massed ranks of Sams. I had laboured particularly over one such email, bent over the Aga and a cup of very strong tea with the iPad on my knee, hit ‘send’ and . . . NOTHING HAPPENED. AAAAAAAAUGH. The iPad gets lonely if it doesn’t get to keep a few emails all to itself. And it likes to collect unsent emails. You the helpless suffering human get the ‘server failure’ notice, the email disappears, the little box at the bottom of your email screen adds one to the ‘unsent’ total . . . but you can’t rescue the email and, I don’t know, resend or anything, because it doesn’t get stashed anywhere sensible like your outbox. IT’S PROBABLY LURKING IN THE CLOUD.
And did I tell you that the last time I actually managed to hang a blog post, this from the ultralapbooktop, Microsoft in its infinite unwise bad attitude informed me that it wanted to do an update, and it wanted to do it now, but I could postpone if I wanted . . . so I postponed AND IT SHUT ME DOWN ANYWAY WITHOUT WARNING ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER. I HAD TIME TO EAT A LOT OF WALLPAPER BEFORE IT TURNED ITSELF BACK ON AGAIN, AND WHEN I CLIMBED BACK INTO THE ADMIN SIDE OF THE BLOG, SNAPPING AND SNARLING, I DISCOVERED THAT ABOUT A TENTH OF THE TEXT HAD LEFT FOR PARTS UNKNOWN TAKING WITH IT MOST OF THE PUNCTUATION AND ALL THE FORMATTING.
I may not have told you. I was too busy trying to prevent my head from exploding.
Maybe I should just go bell ringing more often. . . .
* * *
* Ask the hellterror. Fortunately she thinks it’s a game. —Oooh!, she says, leaping up on her little bedspring legs and punching me enthusiastically in the gut with her forepaws.^ Do that AGAIN!
^ I know. I am a Bad Owner. I permit this. But I think having her pogosticking about the place is amusing. She does know ‘off’ but she hears it relatively rarely and it doesn’t slow her down much. When I try to enforce it she looks at me with an expression of ‘I have to long sit before my last PALTRY snack of the evening+ and now THIS?’ Bullies’ faces aren’t built for looking long-suffering but she has a really good try.
+ She does too. Three to five minutes depending on how patient I’m feeling#. She’s got her harness and lead off and the gate is open and NOTHING BUT SELF RESTRAINT is preventing her from bolting into her crate and snarfing like crazy. ::haphazard owner beams with pride::
There really is a lot to be said for food oriented hellcritters. They are so . . . trainable. Said training may be a long, bloody, and hoarse-making process but it’s POSSIBLE. I get bombarded with a variety of Dog Media because I contribute tiny sums to a number of critter charities and they’re always frenziedly updating you as a flimsy disguise for begging for more money, and they frequently offer you clever suggestions for Training Interactions with Your Resident Hellcritter(s). And they’re ALL frelling based on FOOD REWARDS. I was particularly offended by one that fell through the mail slot just a day or two ago, since the illustrations included a whippet clearly getting into the whole food-treat thing. It was a bull terrier with leg extensions and a mask.
# And/or how many knots I’ve got in the laces of my All Stars. There is a rant to be ranted about the varying LENGTHS of the laces that over the years come with your pretty much standard-shaped All Stars. Some seasons they’re so frelling long I could tie the hellmob to them and dispense with leads. Some seasons they’re so dranglefabbing short you have to omit the last two or three pairs of holes to get them tied at all.
** I perceive a theme.^ I didn’t realise I was hungry. MORE CHOCOLATE. More chocolate is the answer. More chocolate usually is the answer. As the kitchen magnet says, Chocolate is the answer. What was the question?
^ Also: guacamole is far less dangerous than peanut butter. You might want to make a note.
*** Do I want to be backed up to The Cloud? The thing about little pieces of paper is that you’re pretty sure they’re here somewhere. Explanations about what The Cloud is or how it works or where anything in it actually is involves the dreaded word ‘algorithms’. I am allergic to the ‘a’ word. Just frelling typing it makes my fingertips hurt.^
^ Although that may also have something to do with recent close encounters of an unfortunate kind with hellmob-comestible-chopping implements.
† Ultrabook. It’s not ultra and it’s not a book. Grrrrrr.
†† Although anything I’ve actually done on Pooka’s Lilliputian keyboard will be illegible anyway^ so the backing up of gibberish is perhaps more of a matter of principle than practicality.
^ Note that being in a texting relationship with me is not all joy. Not only can’t I type what I mean to be typing, but I have a sometimes unique McKinley take on acceptable abbreviations.
††† Speaking of the hellterror, texting on Pooka lately is a lot like trying to do anything with a hellterror in my lap.^ HI. I’M HERE. I’M IN YOUR LAP. Yes. I had noticed. LET’S PLAY A GAME. No, let’s not. You’re supposed to lie there quietly. That’s the deal about laps. Lying quietly. SURE. I’LL LIE QUIETLY. LET’S PLAY A LYING QUIETLY GAME. YOU DON’T MIND IF I PUT MY FOREPAWS ON YOUR SHOULDERS AND LICK YOUR GLASSES, DO YOU? I’LL DO IT QUIETLY.
^ And anyone who thinks there is perhaps a hellterror bias going on? Well, yes. This month it will be a year since the hellhounds went on this drug that more or less holds back the chronic geysering but also stops them eating pretty much altogether. I don’t know if it destroys their appetite or makes them queasy but the truth is I don’t care. I’ve been forcefeeding them, oh, 85-100% of the time for a year and you could say our relationship has suffered. You could say that. Yes, you could say that with some energy.
Pooka, my (relatively) loyal (as gizmos go) iPhone, is getting ready to check out permanently and go to that big Silicon Valley in the sky where she can play with all the Sinclairs and Altairs in the perfectly atmospherically controlled Elysian Fields equivalent geekily overseen by the demiurge of technology.* I’m still hoping to get twenty years out of Wolfgang, I guess four or five years is pretty good for a mobile phone. SIIIIIIIGH. The first sign of trouble is that she began jumping lines while I was texting which is therefore my own fault for getting sucked into texting in the first place. ARRRRRGH. YOU KNOW THE WORLD WAS FULL OF INTEREST AND DELIGHT BEFORE THERE WAS TEXTING.** But the real moment of shock, horror and brutal recognition of having arrived at the Point of No Return was when I discovered MY BELL RINGING APP WAS FRIED.***
I can no longer remember why I got flummoxed into an iPhone rather than some other mobile phone. I’m sure there was a good† reason.†† However I want no more steep learning curves in my life††† so if I’m replacing Pooka I’m going to replace her with another iPhone, okay? Meanwhile because EVERYTHING! has to be BIGGER!! And BRIGHTER!!! and WHIZZIER!!!! and FLASHIER!!!!!! . . . the frelling iPhone 6 has two models: the just-larger-enough to not squash in the little pink bag that Pooka fits in and hangs around my neck‡ and the frelling ginormous sub-tablet sized. I decided I should actually see these critters before I asked Raphael to order one. If the slightly-too-large one is TOTALLY IMPOSSIBLE the earlier Pooka-sized edition is still available, it just doesn’t have all the upgradey bits that are probably mostly worth having, and I have a certain resistance to spending several hundred pounds on something that isn’t as good as something that is only slightly more insanely expensive and which latter is also less likely to go seriously passé and customer-support-free before it’s ready for the polished-aluminium Elysian Fields. And with all this FRELLING TEXTING I’m now doing the tiny iPhone keyboard is driving me NUTS‡‡ and I thought it might just be worth having a look at the keyboard on the Ginormous Sub-Tablet.
Niall, ahem, texted me, asking if I was going ringing at Crabbiton tonight? I guess, I replied, my fingers a blur of anguish and misspelling, but I’m thinking of going slightly the long way to have a look in at Doorknob and Beastly’s electronics department: their web site says they have iPhone 6s and there’s a D and B on the Crabbiton side of Mauncester. Since we’ve started carpooling I offered to pick him up: he could look at cameras or longswords or something while I was muttering over iPhones.
We arrived at our local Doorknob and Beastly and a nice young man said, oh, we don’t have mobile phones here.‡‡‡ You have to go to the store in Drabness. Drabness? I said, and laughed hollowly. Drabness is Super Mall City: it makes Disney World look like your small local county fair, with the lead-line pony class and the grapefruit-arranging contest. Also you have to go on the motorway to go to Drabness. I don’t drive on motorways.§ Never mind, I said. But we’re going to be early at Crabbiton.
No, no, said Niall, Drabness is like ten minutes on the motorway from here. We can do it easily. NO WE CAN’T, I said. He turned to the nice young man. The Super Mall City end is this side, isn’t it? Ten minutes from here? Fifteen maybe? Yes, said the nice young man. It’s just straight down the motorway and you take the Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here exit and it’s right there, it’s dead simple. NOOOOOOOO, I said, considering falling to my knees and begging for my life. They discussed the particulars of where, exactly, weaving among Thunder Mountain, the Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean and Space Mountain, we were going to find Doorknob and Beastly and then Niall shooed me out of the store saying loudly over my feverish quacking that it would be easy and he could tell me EXACTLY what to do.
We got on the motorway (under Niall’s strict direction). With me still clucking and cheeping.
And two minutes later we ran into THE BIGGEST TRAFFIC JAM IN THE HISTORY OF BRITISH ROAD HAVOC. Of course there were no available exits. That would be so obvious. Mind you it was almost worth it, sitting there breathing 1,000,000,000,000 internal combustion engines’ combined exhaust and watching all the SUVs play chicken with each other pointlessly swapping lanes, while listening to Niall apologising for getting me into this. ALMOST.
We did get there. Eventually. And I’M the one found Doorknob and Beastly.§§ Just by the way. And the Ginormous Sub-Tablet iPhone 6’s keyboard is not worth carrying—or figuring out how to carry—around something the size of a frelling DVD box.§§§ And the little one does fit into Pooka’s little pink bag . . . but it won’t, as soon as I get a cover for it. I’ll worry about that LATER.
We even made it to Crabbiton half an hour before the end of practise.
* * *
* I’m fine with—no, I’m positively looking forward to—going down under a large many-legged wave of furry things when I finally make it through the pearly gates some moment when St Peter is looking the other way. I’m not sure I’m joyously anticipating greeting all the technology that has gone before. In which case I probably shouldn’t give it names and genders: this behaviour probably leads it to believe we’re supposed to be friends. WELL YES WE ARE. SUPPOSED TO BE. FRIENDS. Arrrrrrrrrgh.
** Too frelling late now: the genie is not only out of the bottle, she’s turned it into a flower-pot and is growing a fine healthy crop of deadly nightshade.
*** Life was going to be so much simpler if I was just going to kind of sidle away from bell ringing without ever quite giving it up officially. Like maybe if Niall moved to Zurich and Wild Robert to Ottawa. These people who have taught you to ring somehow seem to think, okay, you ring. I know you ring. SO RING. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, KNITTING? OR TIRED AND DEMORALISED? I SAID RING.
†† Which is probably immortalised on the blog. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW.
††† I may tell you about . . . um . . . well, maybe not tonight.
‡ I totally do not get the penchant for carrying your iPhone in your pocket. The little fold-up non-iPhone mobiles, sure, if that’s how you want to frictionize holes in your pockets: I tend to the Large Wodge of Keys method myself but to each his/her own. But an iPhone—even a little old one like Pooka—is MUCH TOO LARGE. I keep reading these reviews that report, bristling with multiple dudgeon from the highest possible of horses, that their iPhones have bent. Usually I think that modern paraphernalia is criminally tacky and built to disintegrate on contact so you have to buy another one immediately, but in the case of people who keep their iPhones in their pockets I THINK THEY DESERVE BENT IPHONES. If you have the thing lying next to you on the table or counter or the bookshelf by your bed^ you will not only be aware of it doing its little vibration tango^^ but even turned off it burrs at you.
^ or the back of the loo while you take your bath: I know, for someone who is still at least 85% Luddite I’m a trifle neuromancer about my iPhone, but if I say if Peter ever actually DOES phone me when he’s had a fall rather than soldiering on alone and bleeding all over the carpet, I want to get that phone call.
^^ And on the top of the loo cistern it positively rattles like a small pink rectangular castanet
‡‡ WHY ARE THERE NO ARROW KEYS SO YOU CAN MOVE AROUND MORE PRECISELY THAN THE SCREEN WILL READ YOUR BIG FAT FINGERS? ESPECIALLY WHEN THE PREDICTIVE FACILITY IS CORRECTING YOU IN A MORE THAN USUALLY INFURIATING WAY? WHY ARE THERE NO ARROW KEYS?
‡‡‡ YOUR FRELLING WEB SITE SAYS YOU DO. It’s a national chain, right? So you look narrowly at the listings for both your shop and your desired item, looking for any warning about ‘not all outlets have all listed merchandise’ or similar . . . or a phone number for your local shop rather than the random national 800 number that will leave you on hold for half an hour while playing Vivaldi’s the Four Seasons on six kazoos and an eggbeater very loudly in your ear. I used to like Vivaldi’s the Four Seasons.
§ Highways. The forty-eight lane kind where the slow lane is going 80 mph and the fast lane is in orbit.
§§ It wasn’t even that large. Two acres tops. Okay maybe three.
§§§ Anybody wanting to carry this sucker around in a pocket is going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. With Kevlar pockets.
Okay, I’ve got some stories for you, but no time to tell them. But as a placeholder you might find the email I just wrote to Worthy Charity #74,821,333 mildly entertaining:
Your web designer is a MORON. Please pass on my lack of respect. In the first place, why is a title required? Many people—myself included—prefer not to use one if we’re given the option. Then, if the standard short list of titles your site provides does not apply and one is so foolhardy as to tick ‘other’, one is presented with a drop-down list of epic proportions, offering ever wilder opportunities, Death Star Commander, Harvest Goddess, Sixth Degree of Kevin Bacon . . . and lo and behold tucked away in there is ‘Family’. My sponsorship is a gift to four members of a family, and so with a somewhat wary relief, I ticked ‘family’. BUT A FIRST NAME IS STILL REQUIRED. Um. Xxxx? Ja-Sa-Sa-An? What? This is to a family. There is no single ‘first name.’ And the four of them are going to have to look at whatever inanity I come up with for the duration of the sponsorship. Thanks ever so.
If you’re lucky, your other would-be sponsors are less volatile. I am fed up to here with web sites that have been designed by lobotomised beavers with hangovers. This time of year I do a lot of on line ordering and there are a lot of worthy charities out there, some of whose web sites function more or less straightforwardly. I could have sponsored another [furry critter worth keeping alive and well fed] for half the price of one of your [glorified superwhatsits]: but it wouldn’t [grow up to make the world a better place]. So here I am. Fuming.
R McKinley Dickinson
I’m going to be at the hospital a lot of tomorrow again and then I have somehow allowed myself to get ensorcelled into frelling handbells in the evening. ARRRRGH. I’ve warned Niall I will have No Brain after all that knitting* but he seems to think this is not as relevant as the Body in the Chair with Outstretched Hands Holding Handbells part of it. He may live to regret this. Meanwhile I’m missing deadlines right and left** but if I have the kind of limbo-brain later tomorrow night that is utterly incapable of work*** but could probably splodge out a blog post as an alternative to cruising end-of-year knitting sale sites . . . I’ll give splodging a try.
PS: Thanks for all the nice supportive words, all you readers, both on the forum and in my email inbox. The kindness of strangers–or semi-strangers–is more of a comfort than perhaps most of you guess.
* * *
* Just as an aside, thank God for knitting as a way of not driving the ill person you’re visiting crazy. Also the nurses would probably throw me out after I picked the second chair to pieces. Not that God is my favourite person recently with all the depressing mayhem in my life, but my monk ruthlessly pointed out that the bloke whose birthday we’re celebrating next week suffered^ so that none of us need ever suffer alone AND THERE’S A CYCLICAL NON-LOGIC TO THIS THAT I DON’T LIKE AT ALL but . . . yeah. I have no idea how it works but the thing is that it does work. It doesn’t work ENOUGH. But . . . Jesus and knitting. Okay. Whatever.
^ among other reasons to do with life everlasting where it’s never too cold to sit still and contemplate higher things and eating too much chocolate never makes you fat
** No, nothing to do with EBON, I’m afraid. EBON doesn’t even have a deadline to miss at the moment, sigh. No, things like interviews for Open Road who are trying valiantly to publicise all those shiny new ebooks, and house insurance. HOUSE INSURANCE?? I’M OVERDUE ON THE HOUSE INSURANCE? Fortunately an insurance company that has had you by the short hairs for a number of years tends to come after you pretty robustly. MONEY. WE WANT MONEY. WE WANT YOUR MONEY. WE WANT IT NOOOOOOOW. I put the cheque in the post today. That only leaves 1,000,000,000 deadlines of a moderately life-threatening nature to go.
*** This includes looking at columns of figures with slightly more understanding than if I were staring at the Voynich manuscript, and writing my signature on the bottom of cheques that the bank won’t return as forgeries^.
^ Tear splotches and bloodstains, of course, are majestically ignored. Banks have seen that all before.
We’ve got three or four degrees of frost out there* AND THE FRELLING MONKS HAVEN’T TURNED THE FRELLING HEATING ON IN THEIR FRELLING CHAPEL. I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO COLD IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.** At least when you’re Street Pastoring you can, you know, fidget.*** Although the big problem with SPing in the COOOOOOLD is that you’re supposed to stroll, so you can catch people’s eyes and check for passed-out drunks in alleyways and things. The Street Pastor Amble. It’s a skill. I haven’t got it. When I walk slowly I tend to fall over. My sense of balance—which used to be pretty good; I was one of those people who could run on Maine so-called beaches, springing gazelle-like from rock to rock†—has been programmed for speed since I first waveringly clambered up a coffee-table leg and launched out into the perilous unknown of the living-room floor at the age, I believe, of eleven months. About most things I’m the slowest person on the planet†† but it’s like walking is trying to make up for deficits elsewhere. I WALK FAST. I ONLY KNOW HOW TO WALK FAST. And falling over when you’re a Street Pastor does not look good. I’m working on my amble.
Anyway. Street Pastoring can be very, very, very cold. BUT NOT AS COLD AS SITTING STILL IN A FRELLING CHAPEL WATCHING YOUR BREATH SMOKE AND TRYING TO THINK ABOUT GOD.††† You kind of get distracted by thoughts of When Is This Torture Going to End and It’s Only December. I spent November telling myself that it wasn’t that cold yet‡ and that I’d start bringing a blanket again in December. And then I missed last week because the monks were having a doodah that crude amateur members of the public were not invited to and so tonight . . . well, I brought a blanket, and it’s a good thing or I’d have FRELLING DIED OF EXPOSURE. It was a near thing anyway.‡‡
But I also saw my monk beforehand, and as I said to him as he let me in, just seeing him cheers me up ‡‡‡ so I can’t moan properly. Listen, all you loyal blog readers, a little of why I haven’t posted in yonks-frelling-plus is a little bit the thing about how if I stop posting every night I’ll stop posting altogether, but it’s mostly because my life has taken a violent turn for the absolutely shitty, and I’m not coping too brilliantly. There are days when I’m not coping at all. This blog has always been Days in the Life . . . but that’s been mostly predicated on the idea that I can find something in the daily round that is modestly amusing and can be amped up for public consumption, and the opportunities for funny are sodblasted thin on the barren, meteorite-crater-pocked ground lately. As is my energy level for spin doctoring.
The one contrariety I am admitting to, and which I tweeted about a few days ago, is that THIS IS A NEW COMPUTER. AND DO I HAVE TO BOTHER TELLING YOU THAT IT IS DRIVING ME BANANA NUT TWIST SUPERLATIVE SUPREME BONKERS WITH EXTRA FROSTING. No, I didn’t think I had to tell you that.§ And my old laptop died SPECTACULARLY about twenty-six minutes—okay, maybe it was twenty-six hours, but it was also a Saturday—after I took delivery of this one, holding to its aged and flaming bosom as it crashed burning, a certain amount of stuff that hadn’t been transferred yet, and while in theory YES EVERYTHING IS BACKED UP, um, WHERE??????
And at this interesting juncture I’m going to leave you, because I have to get up what passes in my world for early tomorrow, I have a friend to visit in hospital. . . .
I hope I will post again some time this week. It’ll be a good sign if I do. Prayers, positive thoughts, well-disposed corn dollies or anything else of a spiritually uplifting nature, most welcome. §§
* * *
* ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. HOLD THAT ARRRRRRRRRRRGH. Meanwhile, we have three or four degrees of frost out there and any geraniums I missed in the dark are toast.^
^ ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH continued.
** More ARRRRGH. As above.
*** EVEN MORE ARRRRGH. Maybe I’ll go knit, I mean knit, something.
† Well maybe not precisely gazelle like
†† WRITING BOOKS, for example. Whimper.
††† I’m sure I saw ice crystals on the Host we were supposed to be contemplating. I really hope heaven is warm.^
^ Hey. We all get to heaven. It just takes some of us a few more millennia+ than others.++
+ Possibly spent in small rooms with large blackboards writing something like ‘I will not murder people who misuse “lie” and “lay”’ six hundred and forty-seven gazillion times.
++ And I said warm. I didn’t say fiery inferno and demons with pitchforks and nasty laughs.
‡ And it wasn’t. I just don’t sit still any better than I walk slowly. My blood goes gelid and viscous and stops circulating. Both my congenital fidgets and walking speed may merely be the result of having lazy blood that has to be PRODDED to keep circulating.^
^ Don’t I feed you enough VITAMINS? I feed you SHEDLOADS of vitamins. Grrrrr. +
+ I hate taking pills. But supplements are one of the things that got me off the sofa again after the ME stomped me flat, and keep me off the sofa# now. I know supplements are controversial. But I’ve proved their usefulness to my own satisfaction many times by the simple expedient of running out of something occasionally and working backwards when the symptoms the thing I’ve run out of is holding off start coming back. I haven’t found the vitamin or vitamins that will plug the gaps in my memory—although the idea that this is the shiny improved supplement-supported memory is pretty terrifying.
# Mournful looks from hellhounds~
~ Smug look from hellterror, who can fit on my lap in a chair when there isn’t time for a proper sofa.
‡‡ In spite of the two turtlenecks, two wool cardigans, heavy leather jacket, wool gloves, heavy long johns under the 501 Levis, two pairs of socks and wool inserts in my All Stars. COLD. COOOOOOLD.
‡‡‡ Go with it, he said, grinning.
§ All those earlier ARRRRRGHS? Well, for example, the ‘function’ and the ‘control’ key have swapped places. I use flapbloodydoodling control all the time. For example you hit control-i for italic, okay? You hit function-i and NOTHING HAPPENS, except to your blood pressure. For another example, Raphael, in theory, gave me a PINK FONT option in the drop-down menu here in Word. If you start a new document . . . it’s in pink. Which I probably don’t want.^^^ But if you look in the drop-down menu for pink . . . it isn’t there. You have to go frelling dive^ for it in the Colour Hexagram, which is not^^ user-friendly.
^ CONTROL-I NOT FUNCTION-I ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH
^^^ I’m in pink now because I had to copy and paste format-free into a fresh document to get rid of some SODITDOODAHANDTHEHORSEITRODEINON hard line breaks that I have no+ idea about where they came from or anything else, and having just spent about twenty minutes GETTING RID OF AUTO-BULLETING EVERY TIME I WANTED TO INSERT A FOOTNOTE++ I’m feeling a little harassed. +++ I’ve also had to reinstate the shortcuts for my footnote icons and let’s not even APPROACH the interesting time I’m having with IE.
§§ And I apologise about KES. But you don’t want me doing any final tweaking to half-finished eps at the moment, trust me. It would not end well.
. . . only more annoying. Thanksgiving in England. Feh. COMPUTERS. GINORMOUS ERUPTING ARRRRRGH WITH LOTS OF BOILING LAVA. And maybe a fire-god or two. And Boadicea—she’s supposed to have flaming red hair, right?—and the scything knives on her chariot.* What’s the computer version of a red-haired warrior queen with whizzing chopper blades on her war-chariot’s wheels and a really really bad attitude toward her overlords? I NEED THIS. WHATEVER IT IS. I NEED IT BADLY. I NEED IT NOW.
Peter and I did manage to go out for dinner—I know, we should have been at home slaving over a whole series of hot, speaking of hot, cooking aids, including the wooden spoon you accidentally left in the whatever and which is beginning to give off a pleasant fragrance of charring wood, but—why? Christmas will be here soon enough.** Never mind my confusingly American-sounding accent, my passport, and my place of birth: I’m British. I find Thanksgiving quaint, and, with my digestion, superfluous. Another good reason to live in England. Tick that box.
But we didn’t go out to dinner to celebrate, if in a non-traditional way, because it was Thanksgiving. We went out to dinner because we were supposed to go out for tea, only I missed. I got to bed late even for me*** thanks to one of my duty shifts running over time, and when I finally staggered out of bed again I ENTIRELY FORGOT that I was supposed to be ringing Raphael so he could do his Remote Meddling and yank the latest diabolical computer miseries† back into some temporary but functional alignment†† . . . until I’d already had the first necessary injection of caffeine, and had tried to turn a computer on . . . ARRRRRGH.
By the time Raphael had returned from rappelling down the side of the Post Office Tower††† I was too late to go out for tea. But we went out for dinner. Which was really better anyway since you don’t usually get champagne at tea time.
* * *
* I could have put Kes in a chariot . . . maybe in book twelve or sixteen or something.
There is a surprising paucity of really satisfactory images of Boadicea, considering she’s one of the few major historical heroines around. I was looking for one with impressive, you know, gauntlets, which might conceivably be magical bracelets, with or without rose embellishments. There aren’t any that I can find after poking around in the usual places via Google:
Hey, lady, anything you say, if you stop waving that kitchen knife at me.
Um, how are they steering those horses? Telepathy?
** I spent one ENTIRE EVENING this week when I could have been, I don’t know, writing a blog post or something, on-line ordering frelling they-deliver pot plants to go to the members of the Dickinson clan it would be the most embarrassing if I forgot entirely (again) . . . I mean, I don’t forget, I just don’t get around to, you know, organising the final dash to the holiday finish line . . . including having got so far as buying things like calendars and tins of biscuits WHICH WILL HAVE GONE OUT OF DATE by the time I unearth them next year because I didn’t get them WRAPPED AND SENT LAST YEAR. Anybody want a decorative tin of stale biscuits? I can occasionally recycle the calendar photos which are often . . . oh, roses or something. And may I just remark that that venerable British manufacturing icon, Blu Frelling Tack^, is not worth its reputation. Sure, it’s reusable. It’s reusable up to and including the 1,000,000,000th time something has fallen off the wall/the back of the refrigerator^^/the side of the cupboard/the edge of the bookshelf, etc, that it was supposedly glomped onto by Blu Tack. I have other things to do with my time than resticking. ^^^
^ Why not Blue Tack or Blu Tak? Blu Tack merely looks confused and indecisive. +
+ Hums an old American folk song and does not make any obvious remarks about British politicians.
^^ which is much more attractive covered in calendar cut-out photos of roses
^^^ Laundry, for example. The INSUFFICIENT advantage of washing hellmob bedding every two or three days is that the critter hair problem is much reduced+. Well, sort of. The ambient hair level is definitely lower, as is the amount I claw out of the washing machine after every critter load. But it means that EVERYTHING I OWN that gets washed in the machine now has some critter hair in it. Yes, I run a quick cold wash after the mob stuff comes out, but that’s like using a broom to sweep off snow-laden steps that you’ve already tramped up and down several times. I used to be able to sort of stagger post-critter-washes so the jeans took the worst, and then the sweatshirts and outer layers and finally . . . hmmm. I’m here to tell you that I haven’t found a clothes brush yet—including those disposable sticky-tape ones and the little pads that are like a cross between velvet and Velcro—that works worth a damn on your underwear.
Meanwhile . . . I began Flea Protocol #7,243,006 today. SIIIIIIIIGH. One of the reasons I’m posting less often lately is that I’m frelling reading everything I can get my gnarly hands on about . . . well, about parasites generally, at this point, and about immune system strengtheners and blah blah blah, to give me more ideas about what else to try for fleas. The fact that there’s a huge amount of controversy and conflict and contradictory PROOF [sic] about what is safe to use is not helping. Maybe I could just bore the ugly little sods into going somewhere else? . . . Oh God guys here she comes again. I just want to suck blood in peace, what is her PROBLEM? We’re so tiny—she’d never have to know we’re here—all 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 of us. Okay mates we’re gonna hide behind this ear—NO NO SHE’S GOING FOR THE EARS. One of the advantages of naturally comatose++, plasticine+++ hellhounds is that you can roll them around and rub whatever into their fur, including all their private bits, any way you like. As long as it doesn’t involve swallowing anything it’s all attention, and it’s all good. The hellterror is also perfectly happy to be rolled around, but she tends to want to engage with the game WILL YOU HOLD STILL YOU THING. ARR-ARR-ARR-ARR, says happy engaged hellterror.
+ I still want to know whose brilliant idea it was to design the front-loader part of a front-loading washing machine to accumulate dirty water, critter hair, tiny shreds of unidentifiable gubbins and really unpleasant semi-dissolved yuck, in the un-get-at-able bottom of the door, defended by several heavy, uncooperative folds of rubber tubing. Which is apparently still standard over here, including the greater European Union, since both my last was and my current washing machine is, German#. My not-very-new-any-more washing machine gets very mixed reviews from me; not only is the front-loading door familiar in all the wrong ways, its filter is emergency only and you must approach it by precision serial usage of several Special Tools and the manual suggests sacrificing a black cockerel at the new moon as well, although advice about how to predict which new moon is the one heralding more-than-the-usual filter anguish does not seem to be included.
# Different brands. I try to make different mistakes.
++ Except, of course, outdoors, if there is a prospect of SOMETHING TO CHASE. Although Chaos did manage to slam into a cupboard once back at the mews because he saw a mouse amble across the floor.
+++ Or possibly Fawn, Charcoal and Tri-Colour Tack
*** I bring the hellmob back to the cottage from Third House sequentially, hellhounds first and hellterror second. I looooove the new system, by the way, because the Last Hurtle of the Day is built in, without recourse to Wolfgang, and can be any length I/we choose, depending on energy levels, the way the day/night has gone thus far, what is going to jump on me from a dark corner in the day to come, and a variety of other factors, lately chiefly the heaviness of the RAIN.^ Wednesday night I was coming back, as mentioned above, um, rather spectacularly late, which is to say, um, dawn, and noodling along not paying attention to anything much while Pav investigated every leaf, shadow and discarded crisp packet . . . and WE SUDDENLY MET ANOTHER WOMAN AND HER DOG. OOOOOOPS. The other woman and I looked at each other in amazement. I never see anyone else out at this hour! she said. Erm, I said, neither do I—failing to mention that I hadn’t been to bed yet. She had all the irritating glitter of the early riser about her.
^ Have I mentioned that fleas like warm and wet and that one of the things that haunts me is the possibility that this unprecedented invasion is a front runner of global warming? And I’m really looking forward to the return of malaria to southern England. Not.
† The beginning of the week I had no email for nearly two days. The middle of the week I had no internet for nearly two days. I’ve been doing a lot of knitting.^
And my new kit—ultrabook and iPad Air—was supposed to be here by the end of this week so Raphael could install it next week AND GUESS WHAT IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I HAVEN’T HEARD ANYTHING.
^ Which I promise or, if you prefer, threaten, will be the topic of a blog post soon.
†† This process is seriously disconcerting. I turn on the gizmo programme from my end, it goes SHAZZAM!!!, my screen turns midnight-blue and suddenly Raphael, from however many miles away, is invisibly moving my mouse around and opening and shutting my files and my browser(s) and . . . eeeeep.
††† See, there was this peregrine nest dangling over the gruntzenjam ventilator of the main computer scorbovarg, and the operators all cried in one voice, RAPHAEL!^
^ He used a rope to keep up appearances. An archangel hovering beside the Post Office Tower in central London would definitely cause a traffic jam.