We have been without a computer the last few days. No desk top. No lap top. Which – I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit – has meant that life as the Gappy family knows it has ground to a slow sort of shuffle. I mean we rely on the damn internet for everything from keeping up with distant friends to grocery shopping. You might have heard me wailing and gnashing my teeth, only I doubt anyone could hear anything much over the huge collective sigh of relief being emitted by all mothers everywhere. Oh the start of the September term… and exhale.
My lap-top had a virus, poor thing – the idea of which sometimes makes me laugh as I imagine wrapping it up in the ‘special blanket’ and giving it mugs of hot lemon and honey. Which then freaks me out a bit as I realise I have developed a sentimental attachment to a piece of electronic equipment. I mean that’s not normal right?
Still, it’s Better Than Drinking! Which is my new catchphrase by the way. Appropriate for all manner of situations, I’m sure you’ll agree. Like, Gappy, why are you sticking pins in your eyes? Well you know, it’s Better Than Drinking! Or Gappy, why are you writing inane blog posts about absolutely nothing at all? Because it’s Better Than Drinking! See? It just works!
Anyway the computer doctor came and made my poorly lap-top better. He sat there mostly in silence, looking very bald and techno-whizzing away before turning to me and saying, “Hmm. There was an awful lot of rubbish on there I had to take off,” and giving me what I took to be a rather pointed look. I could have done without the pointed look to be honest. I mean way to make a woman paranoid. Which led me to thinking that computer fix it people are rather like modern day priests in that they probably know all kinds of secret juicy nuggets about the people in their communities – the only difference being that the confessional is not exactly voluntary and nobody gets to feel better afterwards.
I did consider trying to write something intelligent about Miley Cyrus while my computer was poorly but it turns out I can’t actually be arsed. As a certain man I admire likes to say, opinions are like arseholes – everyone’s got one. I personally find all the misogynistic slut-shaming a whole lot more distasteful than a young woman donning big flesh coloured pants and waving her bum in the air, but… shrug. She should absolutely be held to account for Party In The USA though. Some things are just Not. Ok.
Also I have had my Charlie Brooker anthology stolen. By my own son. To add insult to injury he keeps lying on the sofa and snorting loudly with amusement precisely every eleven and a half seconds. ‘Oh my god, this bloke’s sooo funny’ he keeps telling me breathlessly. Um yeah, I know. That’s why it’s my anthology. I’m waiting for him to unthinkingly put it down because I plan to steal it back the first chance I get. I like to take Charlie Brooker into the bath with me. You can read into that what you will.
And that folks, is the most annoying thing about teenagers. They slowly graduate from liking kid stuff to liking your stuff. It started with my Ipod periodically going missing. Then all my favourite Tim Minchin songs got ruined due to having to listen to them played over and over in a loop while being asked awkward questions such as what exactly was neck down alopecia. Now the boy’s after my damn eyeliner.
I ask you, is nothing sacred?