At least I think that’s what she’s telling me. The power went out today. Poop – just like that – taking down the central heating, the stereo and the computer. One second everything’s hunkey dorey and the next it’s like living in the Dark Ages. Thank The Dancing Fish I’ve been editing, which is a pen and paper pastime, rather than writing (which is 100% keyboard dependant). Otherwise I’d have to go round to the offices of Scottish Hydro Electric and go postal on their asses. I don’t think I could ever write something the same way twice, so when it’s gone: it’s gone. This is why I have the nervous 'Ctrl S' twitch. Like Tourette's only without all the swearing.
And so I sat there, looking at the blank monitor, thinking that I could really do with something that doesn’t curl up its toes at the first sign of electricity blackout. Something with a battery of its own (and yes, I know I could get a UPS, but they only give you enough power to switch everything off, so they’re hardly likely to let me keep on writing – happy thought that would make the Herald on Sunday and the Guardian), something flat and carryable with some sort of nifty thing in it that does stuff. And I have a cunning plan to help me pay for same – I’m going to knock over a post office. Or maybe do some nude modelling. But probably knock over a post office.
So if anyone asks, I was at your house all night, OK?