I am typing at my desk, in my room. My computer is whirring beneath me, seemingly indifferent to having been anywhere. I took it to a shop this morning where they immediately replaced the power supply for £70. All this means my new CD/DVD burner addition cost me £100 in total, but everything's back to normal and seems strangely unaffected, like an abused child who's blanked the bad stuff out.
Actually, that's a really horrible analogy.
I'm amazed I've still got data on there at all. I woke up yesterday morning convinced that computers operated like household mains and I'd merely blown a fuse. I'd found a switch at the rear (unwittingly increasing the voltage to Texan jail levels), flicked it, and re-inserted the mains. Then it really blew, like a small, compartmentalised Hiroshima in my bedroom, complete with a proper bang and lots of smoke.
So, all this raising the dead means I will get back to my book - and general whinging and porn surfing - just as soon as I undertake YET ANOTHER stag do this weekend. It is my mate Chopper's shindig, and promises to be fun. Four days of carnage and fun. Plus I am a third of a Best Man so I get to buy large, arrestable amounts of drugs and drive a minibus down to Exeter full of drunk reprobates. Fantastic.
By approximately 3pm this Friday, I intend to sit back in our rented cottage and hedonise myself back to the Roman Circuses of yore.
And still not pull, probably.
Duh. What am I thinking? Make that definitely.