liadnan

The ghost of Rene Magritte haunts my mobile phone.

No, really. Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Buttercup is to marry...

I'll come in again.

I have a WAP phone, which, as any fule kno, is an appalling piece of pointless shite. However, given that the majority of my personal email ends up, eventually, in the account provided by Orange, who also are my phone provider, the one thing that does work is the ability to access my email inbox through the phone. Not very handy for actually reading mail, and absolutely appalling, at least on my cheap bit of Samsung tat, for replying, but it does let me know if anything interesting is there.

Having said that, it frequently drops the connection and returns one of a fascinatingly wide, and uniformly unhelpful, variety of error messages. None so good as the one I saw for the first time over the weekend though:

"Not an error. You should not be seeing this message. Back?"

Um.

(And when you go "back" and try again, you continue to end up at this piece of technological surrealism unless you actually turn the bugger off ("PLINKY PLONKY PING I AM TURNING OFF") and on again ("PLINKY PLONKY PING HERE I AM AGAIN, OR WILL BE WHEN I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT".)

Ho hum.

I am in a smashing mood, having just come out from a particularly splendid win, and am feeling very pleased with myself. Indemnity costs ho ho (and I thought we'd get no costs at all, even if we won, which I wasn't completely confident about...)

The rest of the weekend, incidentally, was no less alcoholic than Friday night: up until three on Saturday again, before passing out on my friend's sofa, followed by a long pub lunch for another friend's birthday on Sunday.

As a final note, the bizarre silliness of Midsomer Murders continues to spiral out of control week by week, I am pleased to report. Not only, it would seem, are the Cotswolds a dangerous place to live, they are also a cultural metropolis of unprecedented proportions. (Yes, I know, Hay-on-Wye etc, but there are limits.)