Not a lot of activity here recently – a recent power surge caused a Windows XP file to corrupt, which in turn caused a devilish internal error and hence much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Windows would not recognise itself as being installed, but simultaneously would not reinstall because Windows was already installed. When forced to reinstall, Windows refused to believe it had even one USB port, let alone several, and was frankly incredulous when we tried to force it to recognise the monitor. Graphics card? Nope, can’t find one. Printer? What is this printer of which you speak? Internet connection? Not available, and closing the error message to continue surfing the net just made it more stubborn.
After much backing up and double-checking the backup, Mr. T wiped everything and started again. It seems OK again now, with shiny default wallpaper and many anxious questions about settings and icons. God, I’d forgotten how irritating the default Windows settings are.
I think Bill Gates read my mind and knows I want an iPod.
I’ve started going to the gym again – hurrah. Note my enthusiasm. The gym is one of those things I usually have to force myself to do – I never seem to have the time. I always feel there are so many other things I should be doing instead … and then I don’t do those things either, I sit and watch CSI and say “Idiots! Where is your laminar flow cabinet?” (I think I take TV a bit too literally. And I don’t think laminar flow cabinets, although sterile, make very good TV.)
The previous gym I went to was just down the road from our old place, and it was a gay gym. It was fantastic. All they had were free weights, ab machines and full length mirrors, all in one giant room. There would have only been about a dozen girls who went there. And we were universally ignored. I loved it. Mr T got picked up more than I did. However, as we were moving out of that house and into this one, the gym underwent extensive renovations and a concurrent huge price increase. They advertised and the place quickly turned into your normal gym, full of posers and oglers. My membership lapsed and I never bothered to renew it. Paradise lost.
But this new gym. Not gay, but promising. At the moment I am concentrating on the pool, as a) It is a novelty; and b) It is summer and extremely hot. Unfortunately the pool seems to be very heavily chlorinated. And I mean REALLY heavily. It doesn’t sting my eyes, as due to contact lenses I can’t open my eyes underwater anyway. But after two showers I still get the occasional chemical whiff coming from … where? My hair? My skin? Lodged in my sinuses? I feel like a weapon of chemical warfare. Unclean! Unclean!
So we’re out at dinner, with some workmates of Mr T. (That’s what I’m calling T now. T sounds stupid, like an actual nickname; but one I would certainly never use. However, surely NO ONE could possibly think I would ever call him “Mr” T.) So. We’re at a little restaurant on the St Kilda beachfront, watching the sun go down. We’re talking about accents and pronounciation, and how people sometimes seem to willfully misunderstand you. Mr T begins telling a story, involving him & I on the Gold Coast on holiday, and how we had to write a note and went to ask at the front desk for a pen. The staff were helpfully searching high and low, while we stood there uncertainly, eyeing the cupful of pens on the front counter. When we finally asked if we could just borrow one of those pens, the staff just about died of laughter and explained, between helpless guffaws, that they had thought the request was for a “pin”, presumably to pin the note to the door.
Now this particular story is not particularly funny, or even overly unusual. Only problem with this … is that it never happened to Mr T. This happened to my best friend and me, when we were fifteen, on holiday in Sydney with her parents.
If this keeps up, he could steal my entire identity. What little there is of it. Actually, that would be kind of cool.
Easter has begun. At least, it has begun according to the supermarkets. If you go into my local Safeway, you will be convinced that the Festival of Chocolate is imminent, judging from the amount of space given over to chocoate and the like. May I point out that Easter is in April this year? April? And it is, as I write, early February. I trust I need not further elaborate my point.
Now, I’m all for the eating of more chocolate. The world would be a better place with more chocolate, I say. But Easter seems to encourage the bottom-of-the-barrel chocolate manufacturers. They seem to think any old crap will sell, if you shape it like a bunny and wrap it in foil. Sadly, they are often right. Many is the Easter I have choked down a generic Bunny or Chick, when one is proffered to me (read: forced upon me) by the beaming child of a co-worker. Who has a special little basket and everything. There is no escape.
And I haven’t even seen any Lindt bunnies yet. It’s going to get Real Bad when I do. You – other shoppers! Back AWAY from the bunnies. Leave them allllllll to me … and nobody will get hurt. (Except the bunnies.)
So I had a meeting off-site today, to talk to a company who are pitching for some projects we have going. We get there, and the woman we are talking to (henceforth referred to as Lizard Woman; she was evidently a lover of both the sun and cigarettes) apologises for not being able to meet us earlier in the week as she’d been quite sick. We expressed sincere, but non-specific concern and wishes for feeling better. Unfortunately for us, Lizard Woman took the vague queries as authentic interest from people who Actually Care, and leapt to further enlighten us as to her condition. We sat there in abject horror, misery and, in the end, boredom as we endured graphic descriptions of her lower back pain, her abdomen pain, her previous hysterectomy, her visits to the doctor, her scans, her barium breakfast, and how it all turned out to be an infection. Of the bowel. The BOWEL. She really seemed to dwell on the Bowel bit, pointing to bits of herself with relish and tracing the path of Disease over the front of her stomach.
The Bowel. God help us. We have to go back again on Tuesday.
Things I have eaten today:
1. Small bowl of baked beans. (Actually I only ate the little sausages out of it. Mmm, sausages.)
2. Can of Coke.
3. A mini Ilchester cheddar cheese.
4. Entire bag of fresh peas, unpodded. (I podded them before I ate them. Or should that be unpodded them? Can I phone a friend?)
5. Two handfuls of M&Ms. All right, five handfuls. Six, then.
I think I need to go to the supermarket.
“Amphigorey Too”, Edward Gorey
“Fairytale of New York”, The Pogues
Finding Nemo DVD
Millions of peaches, peaches for me
Goatmilk Comforting Body Cream, Crabtree & Evelyn. This habit is more expensive than crack.
Why don’t Australian petrol pumps have the little clicker that keeps the petrol flowing? It’s a conspiracy against those of us with weak hands.