Little was I aware how dependent I have become on our laptop. That is, until yesterday afternoon when, upon the familiar action of flipping open the lid, I was greeted by the silent stare of an unblinking black screen. No amount of switching off and back on could resuscitate the ailing might of Dell’s finest.
Annoyingly, Mr A is right: it is always me who has to sheepishly admit to causing irrevocable damage to our home PC. I have the cursed touch; sadly, not the Midas touch.
So I am sitting here feeling like someone has just turned off my life support and connection to the world at large. No access to files, folders or email. Luckily though we have a media system machine thingummy, which Mr A built (yes, I am married to a man of many talents thereby further highlighting my bungling incompetence), that incorporates internet access, thus explaining my ability to make this post.
I realise I am suddenly at an overwhelming loss of occupation while Baby-Bel is napping – this is the time of day that I leap into action, squeezing the most out of every second of her slumber, to churn out words, thoughts, shelved frustrations and postponed ponderings to friends, family (and on the odd occasion facebook).
In the days that I used to spend ten hours a day in front of not just one but at least two screens, the familiar flashing of neon on LCD was a sight inextricable from the wearisome toil of work. All systems down would have been a more than welcome fleeting reprieve. Back then, I never came across the urge to touch the home PC. Now it is my link to everything external to these four walls – the life I could live and still can live in a parallel virtual existence.
Anyway, Dell promises to send an engineer tomorrow (despite the arrogant call centre jobsworth who patronised me as I imagine he would an ageing and senile techonophobic great aunt). Transmission resumption expected thereafter.