Well, there he goes. James, my placement, was almost eerily quiet all day (though some of that may have been down to the discussion of the sexual health questionnaire we were assessing today -- though we were discreet enough not to discuss the question of whether or not you could expect a useable answer if you asked a 15 year old male in a secure facility how many times they'd had oral sex in the past month until he was off at lunch) but found me some broken links, drew an almost convincing site map, and wasn't too bad at colour-correcting a photograph, which usually takes some brain-tuning.
What can I say. Kid's a natural. Found his website too, which indicates his major problem may well be, like Alx's an overplus of Slack.
Meant to go pick up my parcel on Saturday morning but felt so awful (two glasses of white wine may be the RDA for a woman on a Friday night, but always leaves me feeling like shit) I didn't make it before I had to go to the Bookshop. A good afternoon, though; I found a couple of £50-80 books, including an angelically lovely Water Babies. It is such a morally dubious story, and yet is one of the best, most, wonderfully illustrated books out there. I had more to look up, but time ran out, I had to go home.
Most of my afternoon today was spent watching Colin from the Helpdesk drift around my screen, proxied in over the network from Wheatley (a different geographical location) struggling with lag and my right-click set mouse (bwa-ha-ha) as he drilled down through Windows2000's endless dialogue boxes. The problem seems to be that I keep randomly losing components (possibly because the central settings are attempting to do something to my machine appropriate to Windows97 running under NT, which is more usual here) from various programs, while also losing settings, having preferences changed, etc. etc. Today Word lost its ability to spell, and while I'm quite good at spelling (except a few key words, eg. committment), that safety-net of cold, machine logic is a major help to my editorial work. Mr Clippy was also gone, though I didn't notice that until Colin proxied in an his Mr Clippy leapt up and started bothering him.
Back in my own logon (none of Colin and Les' sure-fire fixes had worked) I checked my own spelling, while Word reached again and again for an ability to spell which was no longer there, unbothered by Mr Clippy, excised by the same reset which had lost its spelling, like the benign side-effect of a stroke. Sudden thought -- was it me took an ice-pick to Mr Clippy? Had I dealt with him and somehow lost Word its spelling too? No, surely I'd remember, even through the reddish haze that rises whenever I see his goggly little eyes.
It's still not fixed. How shall I do my monthly report now? "In html," replies the web fairy, "Like everything else you do."
Decided to go to a different party on Saturday night (it was two streets away, instead of in an expensive Chinese restaurant in London), and chatted away to cooks and philosophers and stoners oh my, and to my surprise, when I said "well, I'm a webmaster, I guess," in response to the what-do-you-do, got a genuinely impressed, "Oh wow, really?" though the Philosopher had problems with my being called Jeremy. Such fixed ideas they have. Kathy (the hostess with the best dress) gave me two reams of the most wonderful paper in the world as a going home present. Its perfect whiteness has a soft pearlescent sheen, it's ink-jet safe, and it takes my dip-pen without the slightest, most minute, skip, blot, or spread. It's divinely wonderful, and I'd recommend knowing a Chemist working for a paper company to any artist.
Home time's a-coming and I've done almost nothing today. Some corrections, my monthly report. Supervising someone really takes time up, I suppose. I got my parcel this morning, but it wasn't a very good edition of Concrete Island. Sigh.
Sunday I planned to do the entire garden. In my dreams. I filled three bags but it was only about 1/2 done when the light went. All Sunday gone and the garden still begging for attention, how could such a small garden need so much work? So now I've lost my fingernails, and I look like I've had a fight with a cat, the garden's so full of sharp things.
That was Sunday: all I didn't do. Didn't finish the garden, didn't tidy the downstairs room, didn't watch The Others, and finished off by losing my copy of The Fortean Times and so didn't read the readers letters just before I went to bed.
No wonder I slept so badly.