pear-shaped 6 March 2008
It’s all gone completely pear-shaped and I am not referring to my poor bod – electronic communication, of which I am so fond (witness this blog) is beginning to turn around and bite back. Basically, I have 2 versions of broadband on the move – one for the UK and one for Ireland. Grand…so far. Though both are remarkably similar being with Vodafone and nearly identical to behold but for a foxy piece of stickyback plastic on one of the pluggyinny things. (Apologies for going all technical there). But last night in the london residence my laptop refused to recognise EITHER and I have had to but airtime elsewhere. That can’t be right. And this ain’t the new laptop either – that has many other problems that an apparatchik in the Apple store will have to deal with because, although I managed to download my files successfully from one laptop to the other, they have arrived corrupted and the 2nd software disc refuses to download…and there’s no disc drive in the airbook and I suspect I need to buy new versions of Office and all sorts. Tis a DEEZASSTOR I tell ye.
That and a lengthy conversation earlier with a makeup lady about getting older in which we were both way too honest with one another about the horrors it holds and as a consequence I am ready to go out and have most of my flesh cut off and hang the consequences. Actually, we were wondering about injections versus surgery and were both of the opinion that surgery, somehow, is almost the more honest procedure in as much as it’s cut-and-paste whereas the needle is putting all sorts of foreign stuff into you that no one is truly sure about (I think). Whereas everyone can understand how, well, dangerous surgery is and you make a choice based on that. And much as I’d love a nip and tuck I think I am too chicken, and I don’t want the pain (and it would be painful). So, the alternative is get rid of all mirrors and never appear on television again or in another photo ever, unless the lighting is vair vair dim – is that why this time is referred to as ‘twilight years?’
