I am, according to my wife, something of a calamity. Determined to prove her wrong I began to make notes regarding my day-to-day existence and, much to my dismay, I discovered that she was correct.
20/6/96
I am in the photocopying room at work. I have just done a big pile of copying and have sorted it into a pile. A stupid bastard from another department wanders in, complains of the heat and switches on the desktop fan. I spend a few moments picking up the scattered sheets. The miscreant runs away under cover of the paper blizzard. Mark my words, retribution shall be mine.
17/6/96
We are watching The King Of Comedy. My wife is good enough to point out that I am more than a little Pupkinesque, and goes so far as to posit that if I could I would have cut-out XTC figures and I would talk to them and pretend I was in the band. I laugh so much that I hit my head rather hard on a table.
17/6/96
Car grinds to a halt fifty yards from home. Won't start. Thinking petrol might be low I take the can a mile to the nearest garage to fill it up. Two idiots in a big van almost run me down as I am filling the can. An altercation ensues. Much petrol is spilled. Return to car and put petrol in tank. Still won't start. Look at engine, note starter coil cable hanging loose and unconnected. Sort it out and wipe sweat from brow. Do shopping. Get home two hours later and notice sizeable "Groucho Marx" eyebrows and moustache drawn on face by oily hands/face wiping combination.
16/6/96
Wife and I throwing frisbee for my mother's dog. It grabs it and runs into bushes, emerging seconds later without it. Intrepid to the core, I hack my way into bushes, trip over some barbed wire, fall through thorns into some nettles and come to rest in small stream.
15/6/96
Went out on my bike. Got three miles from home and the chain snapped. Wrapped chain around frame and tried running back. Chain, very oily, kept falling off. Bright idea; wrap chain around hand. Ran along for a few yards, chain got caught around front wheel and almost took my fingers off.
24/1/98
Struggle manfully all day to fit my major new computer purchase - new motherboard, processor and dinky little 33.6 modem. Try to simply plug the hard disk with my existing Windows 95 system into the new board but the different architecure jabs it in the kidneys. A new installation is required. Backup all my data, reinstall Windows 95 - tempted by the Bus Master drivers disk but previous experience tells me to pretend I've never seen it - Explorer 4, all my programs and stuff. By the time I've set up all the hardware and software back to the point of useability it's 1:30am. I hook up my new modem and note with surprise the speed at which I am dumped from my provider. Tweak the TCP/IP settings and finally - at 2am - the connection is made and I visit a few web pages to see how the speed changes things. It's nicely nippy compared to my old modem. Check my mail. There's a message from my pal Becki asking me to send her some quotes from the last issue of The Little Express. I know where that is, I've seen it once already that day. My computer room is an l-shaped hymn to chaos - the only place to put something you don't want to stand on is somewhere you will sit on it. Three acoustic guitars lean against a bookcase filled with magazines, CDs and old glasses of stale Diet Pespi. The required item is somewhere in that bookcase. Illuminated only by the soft glow of my Windows display I tiptoe through the debris and crouch down amid the glasses, teetering CDs and twang-laden guitars. Just as I start to rifle the magazines my screen saver - a blank screen - kicks in. In the dark, the still and evil dark, I am alone. I consider strongly the option of staying crouched here until dawn - it's only five hours or so, and I have plenty to drink. Pains in my back suggest this to be a weak notion. Eventually I am rescued by a well aimed handkerchief which I hurl towards the last known position of my mouse. The Windows screen flicks up and, demoralized, I go to bed.
27/1/98
I have flu and I'm not well. My appetite is shot, I sit quietly and wallow in mucus. My wife makes herself a large dinner and says, as she comes out of the kitchen, "I left you some chips if you want them." My numbed tastebuds quite like the idea of this; a litte French Fry sandwich might just help pull me around. I scoop up the few chips out of the oven tray and drop them onto a slice of bread. Out comes the salt, I tip it up to shake it over my chips but, for some foul reason, the top comes off and my chips are buried like logs in snow. The first meal I've been able to face in two days and it's ruined. In my despair I notice the small kitchen vacuum cleaner on the wall. I wonder. It works! Joy of joys, a few burst of well placed suction scoop up most of the excess salt and the rest comes off with a wipe. On goes the ketchup and another slice of bread. For once, at last, I am victorious. It will not last.
Watch out for new additions.