Some people are saying they have had nothing to write about, and that is all they are writing about, but I have had so much to write about in the last week that I have not bothered to write about it. Well, I haven't had the time really.
I have spent about 18 solid hours at this screen, setting and resetting my old passwords, receiving advice from people whose grasp of English is not as firm as it might be for their jobs, spelling out my passwords to them - "So, P for Papa, T for Tango..." - "NO! G for... for..."
I now have a shiny new email account and a shiny new domain name to go with it - my name, not fucking Talk Talk's. So far it is working, and the first thing I have done with it is contact all the most important people in my life to let them know I am still alive and ready to receive their payments. The rest of you can wait.
I decided not to give you a blow-by-blow account of my struggle with I.T. as you have had enough of that, and all I am doing is sobbing into cyberspace in any case, plus I'm pretty good at boring people without resorting to already boring subject matter.
Talking of which, my health has taken a bit of a battering because of all of this too. I would not have thought that knowing that someone out there wants to actually physically kill me would have such an effect on me either, but I suppose I have never been in this situation before, so how could I? It certainly makes getting up in the morning that little bit harder. Ear infection, teeth hurting, a head-cold which refuses to go away, arthritic symptoms getting a little more exacerbated - it all piles on top of itself. How boring.
It seems as if the planets lined-up in a malignant pattern for me (and a few others) but I think I sense a shifting for the better, as Spring begins to come into flower. My former obsession with glasses, candlesticks and all things 16th to 17th century is starting to return, which can only be a good thing - for me. For you it's more boredom.
There is an old story - French, I think - about an artist who visits a starving friend who is also an artist, and tries to cheer him up by reminding him that he will always have his Art to fall back on. The friend asks how anyone can think of Art when they are starving to death for lack of money.
An army marches on its stomach.