Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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quick! ask me now! i'm too ill to say no!

I'm ill, and have consequently lost control over my life. Yesterday I should have spent in bed (though I can't sleep, I just lie there drifting, infuriated by the banality of my fevered waking dreams) but IMPORTANT TASKS intervened at work. I got in and discovered four more on the ansaphone. Everyone at work asked me why I wasn't home in bed. And then asked me a difficult question. And then asked for a more detailed answer.

IMPORTANT TASK 1 progress on the ASP error in C-O-P-S. Not helped by the fact that it's, like, all one huge gigantic error, dude. Gianni of the beautiful eyelashes (my programmer) had done a fix, but not enough testing (habitual with him) so I painfully choke through enough testing to produce another error message and a theory, bash off an email, tick. Gonk.

IMPORTANT TASK 2 Off the ansaphone. Call [deleted], and though she claims to be just calling to ask me how I am, she called three times. No-one is that keen to know how someone is without a great deal more intimacy than exists between [deleted] and I so I (correctly) assume she wants something. She does, and eventually gets round to it; she needs photos of mixed-race groups of young people for publication in a local paper, for a report from the playscheme last week. Apparently, all the photos she has (she had two nice ones okayed by the kids) show only black kids, and she has a "political issue" with that right now. Now, I took lots of photos, and several of them show mixed race groups, but they're 640x480, 72dpi (not really print quality). Try explaining that to someone who can't even do her own photocopying when you've got a streaming headcold. Upshot -- I waste what feels like hours going through fuzzy shots of sulky kids looking for the two or three with the clearest colour and the fewest jpeg artifacts, and then beating them with AdobePhotoshop until they are almost acceptable, and damn it, if I were editing [deleted] I wouldn't use them - but it's [deleted]'s deadline, not mine. I finish the pictures, churn out the email, tick. Ditz.

IMPORTANT TASK 3 Call [deleted], also off the ansaphone. She's doing a women's day website, as far as I'm aware, and mailing me to give me a url to link to. I have to call her at work, and when I ask for her, the administrator says (in her bestest patronising cow voice) "who?" I proffer a variant pronunciation, and she says, "Oh, [deleted]," using exactly the same pronunciation I used the first time. I hate it when people do that. Cow. Anyway the conversation goes okayish until the dreaded words, "oh, you were going to host it." After that it all goes a bit fragmentary with brokenish statements about pages and forms and how she's done "all the work" and in the end she has to get back to something (not that she comes out and says so, as such, but it's pretty clear) and I get four emails containing mangled fragments of an AdobeGolive page to put on my site. Hmm. I hope she has the rights to that cute manga illo there. File under ignore till I feel better, tick. Ninny.

IMPORTANT TASK 4 Fitting the firewire port. This, I was assured, is a very simple task. Riiight. Not when you have Mr Jabby as your PC support, it isn't. Mr Jabby, the guy who won't take a moment to read the instructions, won't wait a second before opening half a dozen dialogue boxes, the guy who clicks first and wonders what he did later. He even put the case back on before he knew the card was working. An hour and a half of greyed-out dialogue boxes later, I am not quite weeping with frustration, but (fuck it) good enough will do and I do at least have everything more or less working, so, done, tick. And maybe I've helped Mr Jabby understand that computers do need a moment to find new hardware, even when they're big and shiny as mine. Jerk.

IMPORTANT TASK 5 - Phone [deleted]. The other person who was repeatedly calling yesterday. He's a youthworker, so unsurprisingly I get his ansaphone. Periodically, between other tasks, I call again, and get his ansaphone, again. Eventually decide that having left him the message is enough. Finish all the trailing fragments of the other tasks. Say fuckit repeatly as I screw up again and again. Eventually go home. No tick for him but fuck it. The end, already!

Got to bed at 4pm, up again at 7.30pm-ish when Damian got back from work, didn't sleep, just lay there, but even that helps, even just lying there, in the dark, thinking about nothing, or next to nothing, just lying there wishing I had the wherewithall to think of something interesting, but no, it's just the same old shit, circulating in my head, the same old next-scene-I-don't-have-time-to-write, same old work fantasies, life fantasies, dream fantasies, same old, same old and if I'm this bored can I please go to sleep now? Hate this. Want to be well again. Now, please.

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