I never reaised how much I depended on the interweb, until I couldn’t get access to it. Email (for poking fun at Agent Phil – a slightly worse-dressed version of Tattoo from Fantasy Island), Google (to find out what’s in pepper-spray, what Anne Widdicombe looks like naked, how many toes George Bush has, etc), Wikepedia (for whatever lies, unsubstantiated rumours, and occasional truths someone’s decided to tell about any given subject), and Google Earth (for when I can’t remember what a specific street in Aberdeen looks like and can’t be arsed driving into town to find out right now). All these things should be ignorable, shouldn’t they? Nothing there is a matter of life and death. Some people even squirrel themselves away at writers’ retreats, just to cut themselves off from the lure of this kind of stuff.
So why am I finding it so frustrating that I can’t get online?
Not to mention the hours I’ve wasted, fiddling with settings on my bastarding wireless router, trying to get the bloody thing to work again.
I know I can just go to the pub and piggyback on their wireless network, but a sixteen-mile round trip, just to check your email, is a bit excessive. Not to mention expensive in petrol. And you can’t even make the trip worthwhile by having a couple of pints. Not if you want to keep your driving licence.
This whole internet thing is such a pain in the arsehole.
It’s way harshing my mellow, dude.