Back to the Stone Age

My Dad always calls himself a fossil, and going to stay at his place is like taking a trip into the past. My own childhood for starters – I have no complaints, but Dad always slips back into the old routines, cooking me dinner, doing my laundry. Yelling at me to take a jacket when I leave the house. Soon enough it feels like I never left.

Unfortunately Dad’s place is also stone age in technology, and he has a clunky ten year old computer that whirrs like a heliopter taking off when you turn it on – and only dialup access. Dialup! For a week! How will I survive?

I’m still making my way slowly through Ondaatje’s autobiography. I love the story, but can only read little bits at a time, because the person who owned it before me wore incredibly strong perfume, somewhere between roses and chlorine, and I have to read it keeping it as far away from my face as possible.

I’ve started The Chatelet’s Apprentice, a mystery set in 17th century Paris. So far the only good thing about it is the liberal scattering of French throughout. I like working on my pronunciation. Apart from that, it’s a bit like an undercooked blacmange.

I used to create this:


I like when you put together all the biggest words, you get sentences like “Real people love reading.” and “Maybe writing people just love reading.” and “Like? Love? Just Get Real. “

Off to the wop wops. See you if I can wangle some broadband off some sympathetic sap.

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