You know winter is coming when you wake up and fog is all around you. Not literally. That would mean a terrible storm has torn your house down, somehow leaving you perfectly okay but has destroyed the rest of your dwelling, not to mention that it miraculously has not awoken you. Or it could mean that you’ve left your fog machine on from your ‘70s disco night. Or it could mean your house is on fire. In which case, you probably shouldn’t have used an authentic disco machine actually from the ‘70s. I mean, did anything work in the ‘70s? We had flares and lava lamps. Both highly combustible. Although the explosive element of flares was rather more metaphorical. And deeply sickening.
In all honesty, you really know when winter has arrived when you can barely move when you wake. Your joints have frozen. An icy mist hurtles its way from every orifice. Certainly true on a morning. The first glimmer of winter rears its meagre head. The day every year in which the heating buggers off to the Caribbean. And then you find some strength to lift your old bones from your bed and stumble toward the bleakness of the sight of the fog of doom. As you stare out of that cold window, Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sound of Silence’ plays in your head like the haunting melody of murderous children from the 1830s. You sniff and expect some sympathy as you gaze over at your bed, but you see no lover. Because no girl wants to lie in that bed. For one simple, brutal reason: the house is so bloody cold she buggered off to the Caribbean.
In all seriousness, I’ve had a hectic and eclectic week. Many pressures weighing down on me. Pressure that is capable of burning buildings down. It’s what the world is about. Watching some good friends scream ‘let me out’. These are the days it never rains but it pours. Can’t we give ourselves one more chance? Ee do ba be… Oh, I’m terribly sorry, that’s a Queen song.
I often get my life confused with Queen. The band. Not the Queen. That would be an interesting psychosis. I say ‘psychosis’. I guess I am a little bit like the Queen. A little old lady living in a huge mansion surrounded by dogs and casual racism, the eyes of the world on her yet she’s already forgotten, a relic of times gone by, clinging to a cheap loyalty for a throne about as powerful a chair as my toilet. So you see, I am like the Queen. In that everything I’ve just described is a horribly warped metaphor. It shall be on my gravestone. ‘Here lies Ally, he was remotely like a horribly warped personal metaphor of Queen Lizzy Number Two’. Hah.
The bulk of my week was technological failure, and my inability to ask for help. I often feel like I don’t need help or anyone when I really do. We all feel like that occasionally. But I was adamant I could fix my problem. This turned out not to be the case and an incredible waste of my time.
My television receiver, encased in a huge metal box, failed on me. Wouldn’t delete recordings. Bugs in the software. Technical jargon that left me feeling as cold as that fog or the ‘70s. Stupid decade. I decided to work some typical Yorkshire magic on the receiver and proceeded to kick the hell out of it. I must say, I was terribly shocked to see such a logical course of action not work.
I then thought, ‘ah, I can fix this using a barely grasped bit of knowledge that I acquired from a second rate internet site’. This didn’t work either. If anything, it made things worse. I gave it more problems to deal with. I reacted to this turn of events in my usual calm demeanour. I think my tears may have been a bit much though, as was being on my knees banging the receiver in frustration, à la many Hollywood flicks. One could argue that perhaps screaming ‘why me? Dear God, what have I done to deserve this criddle?’ was a tad overkill. I prefer ‘characteristic’ to ‘overkill’.
Finally, I conceded and sought help. I really wish the residents of internet that I asked for help were initially more forthcoming. I felt like nobody wanted to help. I actually felt like the little boy who cried wolf. Perhaps my dejection was impatience as, eventually, they did come to my rescue. And I fixed the problem. Rather easily, actually. Just some gentle hacking and prodding with a stick. All was well. My three-day saga (yes, I was at this for three days), was finished. And it damn nearly finished me off, too.
My receiver nightmare taught me a valuable lesson. I lost my temper with something. I thought I knew best. I couldn’t bring myself to swallow my pride and seek help. Sometimes we need to wake up and face the fog. Make your judgments with your head and not with your arse.
Oh, and one more thing. I learnt another valuable lesson: Humax television receivers are a terrible waste of money. You’d be better off making your own television receiver. Ooh, that’s quite a good idea, actually. Off to the laboratory!
Also known as the dining room.
“Don’t make a bad day make you feel like you have a bad life”.
Peace Out :|:
(I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. To do so, you can leave a comment by pressing the bubble on the top right of this post and scroll to the bottom of the new page to where it says ‘leave a reply’. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks)