A (Flanders and) Swann song

An extra day off for Easter.

Whoopee.

Up at the crack of dawn as per usual thanks to Our Kid who hasn't got a day off. Nothing much in the paper ~ same old, same old.

Tried to log on to my ISP; it took nigh on half an hour. Downloaded a few pages so I could put together an interesting post, and this isn't it because there was a power cut.

When the power came back on, I did some work-related stuff which I couldn't complete yesterday because, yes, there had been a power surge which had caused a fire which had ... well you get the picture.

I had a chat with the handyman who's patching up a few things at Jakartass Towers. And then a bit of rain came. Nothing torrential, no need for buckets, just a very light shower.

Except.

Except, however many clear instructions one gives, how many priorities are set, it is guaranteed that your handyman knows better. No matter that after 17 years I know where rain is likely to seep in, he had to change things. Water poured down the walls and I had to disconnect my computer to avoid it being shorted out.

I rushed around moving the terrace furniture which was also being leaked on. Naturally it seems, I stubbed my toe badly enough to rip off my big toe nail.

If I were more sanguine and less bloody, I'd be singing the Flanders and Swann song The Gas Man Cometh.

There does seem to be a pattern in all this, totally unrelated to nationality or culture. I think I'll console myself, therefore, with the thought that the ability to recognise familiar objects in formlessness is said to be the engine behind imagination. Therefore we understand pattern recognition gone wrong as the well from which human culture, roughly defined as the framework of socially accepted interpretations of the real, flows.

Which can be roughly translated as Sod's Law, or Murphy's if you're Friskodude.
 

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¶ 5:30 pm