Monk Quixote

So. I stood in the shop in Regent’s Street and waited patiently to be served. The nice man stopped me from spend­ing £400 extra on the Pro. Fool! I’m a boy! Sell me things I don’t need I will never use! The even nicer man handed me a shiny white box from the dark room — and all I had to do was tap in 4 num­bers on a key­pad!!! Just like when I’m buy­ing an extra-special hand-dressed by vir­gins salad from M&S Sim­ply Food!!!

And then I went back to my CMS User Day and chat­ted to peo­ple about becom­ing a busi­ness ana­lyst (I’d had a beer) and how intranet met­rics vary with the gen­der / parental pro­file of an organ­i­sa­tion / divi­sion. Yes, for I really know how to live. There was much cov­et­ing of my white bag from the men in suits. There was even some­one there with a bob. Who was not a man in a suit. She was a woman in work/evening wear. But she did not covet my bag. Or for that mat­ter, me. Le sigh.

Many hours later, hav­ing taken my bag on a tour of Cam­den and NOT opened it on the train like I did with my work lap­top to play the silly tablet-crossword cos I’m so cool and eat hand-dressed salad and talk to men in suits but not when on the train because mummy told me not to speak to strangers, I arrived in Cam­bridge. (I had to remind myself of the orig­i­nal clause in that sen­tence, bad edi­tor, bad).

Any­hoo. I got the box home. And ten min­utes later, hav­ing sup­plied my WEP key (hey kids, it’s acronym-tasty — oh alright it’s a pass­word) I was into a land of creamy good­ness that I can only describe as… .…the most excited I have been about any­thing since I was eight years old and stopped watch­ing Dr Who from six inches away from the telly with my fists clenched in ter­ror because there really are aliens and they really will eat me unless I watch the telly very close to Dr Who.

I don’t care that the only music I will ever pro­duce will be lame Human League b-sides. I don’t care that the only video I will pro­duce will be sub-Mitchell and Webb par­o­dies where I get to say ‘Gin­ger’ a lot. I don’t care that I’m such a cack-handed typ­ist I’m strug­gling with the a-caps lock and enter keys.

I have a Mac! I have crossed a line. Taken sides. The very first page of the very first thing I read by Dou­glas Adams was ‘Thankyou to Apple Mac­in­tosh’ or words to that effect. And he is Le Mon­sieur and No Mis­take. Hurrah!

Now all I need is a silly hair­cut and some uncom­fort­able shoes.* Yay me!

* Obvi­ously what I _really_ need as a ter­mi­nally dull per­son is to decide between Par­al­lels and Boot­camp so that I can still talk to the men in suits about busi­ness analy­sis and foot­ball. And a catchy theme tune for my SONG FOR WORLD DOMINATION through Mac­cery. Or some­thing. Is it lunchtime yet? Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!