in the crutch-hungry dark
This techno-jinx is getting out of hand. The Evil Landlord's computer died yesterday, again, after no more than a week of actually working. It's got over the hissy-fit random rebooting: now it sulks in the basement, hunching its shoulders and resolutely refusing to boot up at all. Since his computer does all the Iburst stuff, I am once again without home net access. Phooey. However, my recently acquired Heroes of Might and Magic III and IV disk vanished mysteriously into the EL's study on Sunday and hasn't been seen since apart from faint griffin-noises and the occasional bout of tactical cursing, so there's an off chance he might be prompted to get the bloody computer fixed in anything other than geological time.
Then, by way of rubbing in the sad futility of all things electronic, we had a "scheduled" (in the sense that we had no warning at all) power cut last night, right in the middle of that particularly good X-Files episode about the Cigarette Smoking Man and JFK, which was pushing all my paranoid conspiracy happy buttons. Until, that is, it was replaced by pitch blackness. (Actually, the last time this happened I was also watching X-Files. Either I watch way too much X-Files, or there's a sinister connection here). Fortunately, being a good SCA household we have no shortage of candles, candlesticks and matches. I would have knitted by candlelight except that the pattern I want to try with the banana fibre was on my computer. Today I printed it out, secure in the knowledge that this will mean we won't have anything resembling a power cut for weeks.
The Heroes disk has been turned over to the EL mostly because, as a sort of bizarre side-effect of handing in the final book updates, I'm actually reading again. The most recent discovery: Libba Bray. She's a YA paranormal writer, and the two novels I've read (A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels) are Victorian fantasy school stories. They're very non-Harry-Potter, though: it's all girls, not just a girls' school, but magical realms which are controlled by a female priesthood. The novels also have a rather fascinating feel and focus with an atmosphere that's a bit hot-housy, all that adolescent angst, burgeoning sexuality and hormonally-driven Really Bad Decision-Making. (Also, corsets, hot Indian youths, unconventional art teachers and a certain amount of running around the woods naked). Some of the young ladies, or at least the choices they make, make me want to slap them, but in a completely realistic way. I think far too few writers actually tap into the true wayward narcissism of the adolescent. Maybe because they don't want to remember it? I remember all too clearly being inutterably dim about things.
Right. Have just had unpleasant interview with a student whose curriculum disasters are obviously All Our Fault, TM, nothing to do with him. This has left me shredded enough that I'm going to bunk gym on the grounds of exhaustion, shreddedness and a sprained ankle, and trundle homeward to spend the evening doing nothing much. I think Sid is lurking, I slept for nearly ten hours last night and am absolutely drained. Also, starmadeshadow brought me Dresden Files to read. Yay!
Then, by way of rubbing in the sad futility of all things electronic, we had a "scheduled" (in the sense that we had no warning at all) power cut last night, right in the middle of that particularly good X-Files episode about the Cigarette Smoking Man and JFK, which was pushing all my paranoid conspiracy happy buttons. Until, that is, it was replaced by pitch blackness. (Actually, the last time this happened I was also watching X-Files. Either I watch way too much X-Files, or there's a sinister connection here). Fortunately, being a good SCA household we have no shortage of candles, candlesticks and matches. I would have knitted by candlelight except that the pattern I want to try with the banana fibre was on my computer. Today I printed it out, secure in the knowledge that this will mean we won't have anything resembling a power cut for weeks.
The Heroes disk has been turned over to the EL mostly because, as a sort of bizarre side-effect of handing in the final book updates, I'm actually reading again. The most recent discovery: Libba Bray. She's a YA paranormal writer, and the two novels I've read (A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels) are Victorian fantasy school stories. They're very non-Harry-Potter, though: it's all girls, not just a girls' school, but magical realms which are controlled by a female priesthood. The novels also have a rather fascinating feel and focus with an atmosphere that's a bit hot-housy, all that adolescent angst, burgeoning sexuality and hormonally-driven Really Bad Decision-Making. (Also, corsets, hot Indian youths, unconventional art teachers and a certain amount of running around the woods naked). Some of the young ladies, or at least the choices they make, make me want to slap them, but in a completely realistic way. I think far too few writers actually tap into the true wayward narcissism of the adolescent. Maybe because they don't want to remember it? I remember all too clearly being inutterably dim about things.
Right. Have just had unpleasant interview with a student whose curriculum disasters are obviously All Our Fault, TM, nothing to do with him. This has left me shredded enough that I'm going to bunk gym on the grounds of exhaustion, shreddedness and a sprained ankle, and trundle homeward to spend the evening doing nothing much. I think Sid is lurking, I slept for nearly ten hours last night and am absolutely drained. Also, starmadeshadow brought me Dresden Files to read. Yay!