Don't Mess with Superstition
I didn’t blog a few nights ago when normally I would. This triggered a right hook of bad luck. But I have now learnt my lesson. So this blog resumes as previous. I’m locked in for the duration.
I made it home Monday night and set down to finish off some work for 10am the next morning. Only my laptop wouldn’t switch on. Some sort of power failure. First overboard to make weight was the blog post. Second over the side was bashing out some more words on my ‘novel-in-a-month’. Lastly, and perhaps at that point of the week most importantly, was the interview I needed to finish in the next eight hours.
So I spent four hours pressing ‘on’ to no avail. At 4am I decided to risk three hours of sleep, before planning to wake at 8am for a mercy mission to a nearby repair shop. At 8.10am low and behold I discovered that my right knee is in fact magic. A kick to the I.T. balls and power was restored. Either my knee is magic or my laptop is fucked. I think it’s probably both.
Still, as long as I don’t switch this thing off everything is fine. And tonight it was back to normal. The journey from Tooting Bec. Wednesday, the midway point of a week’s worth of adventures in the magical kingdom. I was taking my time, feeling a chipperness re-flowing to my veins and experiencing the first pangs of nerves at the prospect of meeting ‘in-laws’ this weekend. A man passed me, bracing his face to the wind, his eyes fighting the effects of a night of passionless beer. He paid no attention to me.
Then to the bus stop, where a strong crowd was waiting. Maybe once the day of the week determined what breed of person would be waiting for a bus at 11.30pm. But London by-passes this distinction, favouring instead a homogeneousness to its night crawlers. No discrimination here. All of us are equally weird.
Back to the Garrett. Two days to go before York. It’s night time though. That old friend. No time to think about that, especially when there are 25,000 words done and another 25,000 to go before December. Time to write drivel without fear of reprisal.
I made it home Monday night and set down to finish off some work for 10am the next morning. Only my laptop wouldn’t switch on. Some sort of power failure. First overboard to make weight was the blog post. Second over the side was bashing out some more words on my ‘novel-in-a-month’. Lastly, and perhaps at that point of the week most importantly, was the interview I needed to finish in the next eight hours.
So I spent four hours pressing ‘on’ to no avail. At 4am I decided to risk three hours of sleep, before planning to wake at 8am for a mercy mission to a nearby repair shop. At 8.10am low and behold I discovered that my right knee is in fact magic. A kick to the I.T. balls and power was restored. Either my knee is magic or my laptop is fucked. I think it’s probably both.
Still, as long as I don’t switch this thing off everything is fine. And tonight it was back to normal. The journey from Tooting Bec. Wednesday, the midway point of a week’s worth of adventures in the magical kingdom. I was taking my time, feeling a chipperness re-flowing to my veins and experiencing the first pangs of nerves at the prospect of meeting ‘in-laws’ this weekend. A man passed me, bracing his face to the wind, his eyes fighting the effects of a night of passionless beer. He paid no attention to me.
Then to the bus stop, where a strong crowd was waiting. Maybe once the day of the week determined what breed of person would be waiting for a bus at 11.30pm. But London by-passes this distinction, favouring instead a homogeneousness to its night crawlers. No discrimination here. All of us are equally weird.
Back to the Garrett. Two days to go before York. It’s night time though. That old friend. No time to think about that, especially when there are 25,000 words done and another 25,000 to go before December. Time to write drivel without fear of reprisal.
posted by Stephen | 11:49 PM
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