Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 30 March 2014
The Curse of Mother's Day
Maybe it's the curse of Mother's Day, but everything I try to bring up on the computer today either appears in an unreadable form, or it doesn't appear at all. I have tried to take a peek at a few of your latest posts, but the screen goes grey and lies to me by saying that Safari cannot find the server.
Like the way that more people die in British hospitals at weekends than weekdays - because those highly-paid consultants do like their golf and fishing - our internet buggers itself up more on Sundays than any other, and one gets the impression that all those little glitches that are normally fixed by a team of geeks within minutes on Monday, set off alarm bells which continue right through the weekend and go unheard until all the geeks get back from their 48 hours off.
Now I am beginning to think that our local internet server is manned by the Women's Institute, and they are all being taken out for roast dinners by their doting, middle-aged sons and daughters. I hope there were enough daffodils to go round.
I have considered - briefly - the idea of buying my own server and doing away with the fees charged by mine host in Gloucester, saving about £120 a year for an outlay of about £1000.
As far as I can tell, inside these little, briefcase-sized gizmos is enough space to fill ten Albert Halls. My needs would only take up about one shoe-box, so it would be very tempting to rent out some of the rest of it to friends and cover the cost of the initial purchase.
Then I think about all the grief I would get should I fail to pay the electricity or phone bill, and how I would get blamed for every crap website designer's slick-looking sites which haven't had the gremlins ironed out of them, and decide against it.
It would also be like having to try and make sure that the fifty dogs I would have as virtual pets inside this compact but adorable city apartment are all taken care of if H.I. and me decide to go on a week's holiday.
No, I am going to leave it to the Women's Institute to take care of all those cutsie kitten and handy recipe posts - at least they are only away for a few days of the year, like Christmas and Mother's Day and they like kittens and recipes a lot more than I do. As I write this, Blogger has collapsed again and I don't know if you'll ever get to read it. The horror. The horror.
My friend with one of these servers asked me how much I paid for hosting the other day, and when I told him, he said he could provide the same service for £30 per year.
This sounded very attractive at the time, and I asked him for his mobile phone number so I could discuss it with him, having talked it over with H.I. who is the only one with a dedicated website in this household.
"If you call me," he said, "leave a message to begin with so I know you are not the bailiffs trying to get in."
Another reason to leave the hosting to a company who probably have enough funds to pay the bills without a court-order.