I lost two servers. Yes, I know. Losing one is a misfortune, losing two smacks of carelessness. Well, I didn't lose them per se, it's just that somebody was doing an upgrade or something, over the long weekend and now I can't see them. I'm not sure if they were upgrading or replacing the hardware, software or both but they didn't tell me, nor have they told me how to rejig stuff, and usually they should at least rejig it for me so I don't notice the new paths or at least give me instructions. Nope. I've just got dead air and angry phone calls and emails by the bucketful.
Not to mention the floor looks like a war zone with folks being moved in and out. And this was the state of play as Fearless Leader returned and I made my report. Not exactly my finest moment. Ah well. Nothing like management wanting my arse to help me imagine what it'd be like to be hunted by a couple of cranky raptors. About the same level of stress I suspect, maybe more (are their comparitive studies out there, the stress of being hunted by a wild animal as compared to the stress of being butt kicked by peeved managers? Just curious).
Doesn't help that I'm all crampy and feverish and balling my eyes out over the smallest things this morning (hello hormone hell). What really started me off was Perfect Strangers and the story of the two evacuated girls, which tapped into the memory of all those books, and there were dozens, that I read as a child that often started with children being evacuated from London and ending up somewhere spooky and dangerous, or the children made a perilous journey home, only to find a crater. I read so many books that dealt with the the horrors of war from a child's eye view, some written for earlier wars, like Charlotte Sometimes or the Secret Garden, but most written in the 50s, 60s and 70s, which is when I came to find them, often through BBC serialisations, that, I think, may have been written by folks obviously traumatised as children dring WWII. So much of the Battle of Britain is written into children's television and books, no matter how obliquely (cf Daleks) right up to the 70s, when I was a child. It kind of got into my head, and it still disturbs my dreams. Probably didn't help growing up with refugee school chums who'd survived bombs in Beirut, Saigon, Derry and even Birmingham.
Anyway, even though I've never lived through the war, except through other people's stories, like my father's, it got into my head, the childish fear, like a monster under the bed, and it still disturbs my sleep on occassion. Like it did last night, as old BBC serials whirled in my head. When I woke up and thought of what it must have really been like, I cried. Silly really, but there it is.
That's me, far too thin skinned for this world, or this job. Oh well. At least these emotions pumping around inside me, making me feel like I'm about to burst under too much water pressure, they'll find an outlet in either screaming or writing. Let's hope it's the latter. I needed some muse viagra anyway, the poor dear just hasn't been able to get it up all week, impotent fool.
And to think my mother approved of all these things I read and watched, while banning me from the stuff the press ballyhooed, like Starsky and Hutch (which I never saw until I got cable). I mean, honestly, banned from watching S&H because it had hookers and guns in it, but allowed to read unabridged Oliver Twist. How daft is that? Which is why I disapprove of censorship. Aside from it being morally wrong, and usually imposed on the bright by the stupid, it never, ever makes sense. It's always so arbitrary. It's completely lunatic.
Fic writing for the blind. I'm skimming through a train wreck of an Mag7 fic that's just so badly written I just can't stop. Characters are never mentioned by name but by some hideous descriptor that usually relates to a physical attribute or a one note personality trait - if I only had a dollar for everytime Buck is referred to as "the ladies man" instead of simply "Buck". Yes, we all know Buck will screw anything that moves, but really, it only needs to be referred to once or twice, if the story requires that this quirk of Buck's be mentioned at all. Anyways, Ezra is described thus, and these were all plucked from just one half page, so imagine every line including something along the lines of: "the emerald-orbed man", "The jade-eyed man's", "The auburn-haired man", "The russet-haired lieutenant", and, going for the money shot here: "The auburn-haired man's green eyes". Arrrgh. No, I do not set myself up as an authority on prose, no way, no how, never, ever, perish the thought, but, enough is enough, already. Ezra has green eyes and red hair (dependant on how many generations your video coipies are), I get it, let's move on, shall we? Sheesh.
I should add that I've also read many a fine fic this morning, especially those by Lumina and Cyc. I don't normally go for Lumina's stuff but she grabbed me by the short and curlies with her latest, enough to make me want to reappraise her body of work in a new, admiring, light. There's been some good gen stuff over at MBFic, too. Sorry, haven't really read anything else, was trying to get with fixing up a Mag7 fic of my own, since Billy Muse is still being peevish.
Oh, guess who popped up in Relic Hunter last night as Nigel's annoying elder brother? Mr Bingley! My, my. While Mr Darcy went on to films, fame and fortune, poor Mr Bingley (Crispin Bonham-Carter) is reduced to guest spots in Relic Hunter. Oh dear. Never mind, fabulous fun, though poor Nigel twisted in bitterness, sulked and drowned his sorrows. But he also actually got to solve the puzzle this time, and Syd even showed that she cared, just a bit. Poor Nigel. Got the goods but lost the girl. I still worry about him.
Heh, I keep imagining it, an episode of Springer: spunky young research/teaching assistants/grad students and the professors who abuse them. Heh.
Yes, it's another Billy reference. Well, Alan can be short with Billy at times, and Billy isn't as thick skinned as either of them imagined he was.
And speaking of being thin skinned...
Still stewing over issues raised by Slayerfest 6. I just have a problem with Buffy's my way or the highway 'tude. She runs the Scoobies as an autocratic dictaorship that Joseph Stalin would be proud of, wheras Giles had more of a round table thing going. Heh, they used to sit literally around a table. Sure Giles had the right of veto but at least everyone got to put their two cents in.
I also dislike the way Buffy treats her friends. In S6 she says Willow is always there for her, but she also admits to Giles that Willow had a serious problem and Buffy never even noticed. I suppose at least she admits she's a crap friend.
Issues, I suppose, all mine. I've been bullied by more than what I feel were my fair share of Buffys in my time. It usually leads to a Dark Willow hissy fit, too. Nasty. Sigh.
Never mind. I just made friends with annoying perfume reeking woman. How very zen of me. I actually feel a bit better, though my throat still keeps closing up. What's a polite way to say "Madam, your Chanel No. 5 is killing me" without bringing the fact that she smells like a cheap whore into it? (cf my congenital inability to achieve diplomacy). Probably best to just suffer in silence, as always.
In happier news, the nice guy who says hey to me just said hey to me. Too bad his lot are moving out of the floor. Why have I never done more than acknowledge his heys? Because I've been beaten up by so many Buffys I'm emotionally crippled, that's why. If people I adore enjoy kicking me in the guts, well, it's not something you get over, not really, not when it counts, like being brave and saying hello to people you want to like you. Bugger.
You are the 2002 TFL Map! Vibrant and new! Nobody
seems to mind that you are printed on cheap
card with cheap ink! You like stealing ideas
from shunned revolutionaries.
Which London Underground Map Are You?
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