Moping and maudlin meanderings

No, that's just a tease. I do like alliteration. And flogging myself, as well as dead horses.

I am home from my Thursday activities, the other Italian class and for the Art Gallery lecture. I missed these last week because of the nasty migraine, and the intervening week has been characterised by lethargy, self-pity, and inattention to essential activities. In response, my stress levels dwindled to tolerable levels. Yesterday I wrote the long-forecast letter to my BIL, and accordingly the levels shot straight back to being extremely unpleasant and disagreeable. Oh well! I am putting together yet another package to go to the Other Side.

Just to illustrate, with chilling realism, how stress, grieving and other moaning-causing conditions can affect efficiency and effectiveness (adversely, of course), I have been typing all these things on my old iMac. This is because it has my CD-Rom Italian dictionary, which the new iMac spat out, and Word. While I was house-bound, I was not able to go and learn about Pages, on the new iMac. My dear daughter, the racing photographer, during her last visit helped me buy two external disk drives, which she then connected to the two computers. Since then, the old iMac has been slower than the wet weeks and the long-drawn out grieving process, and the time between mouse strokes and effective action has become truly tedious. You could file all your nails while waiting for action, and use quite a few rude words too. Therefore the typing of the correspondence, combined with the constant need for editing and correction of typing errors, took an exceedingly long time. Just like my mental processes, in fact. Is the old iMac telepathic?

Now, one reason I kept the old iMac was that it has Word, but also many other things like my pre-new-iMac photos, and I did not want to lose any of these. Almost as soon as the new iMac was up and running, and as soon as we managed to get the wireless connection working, the old iMac conked out. It turned out to be the logic board, a mysterious part of which I had never heard. I sent it off to be repaired, at hideous expense. It should be clear from this decision that I am not an economic rationalist. Perish the thought.

When, over a month later, it was returned, it suddenly occurred to me that the new iMac has a thingy called the Migration Assistant. This makes the computers talk to each other, and instructs it to copy everything on the old one across to the new one. Programs, documents, photographs, the lot. Somehow or other, I managed to use it, and the old data was sent to a new user on my new iMac. This was undoubtedly a good thing. The next minute, almost, the logic board died yet again, probably from shock, at the user having managed to do this little magic trick. Fortunately, the repair job was still under warranty, so they came and took it away again and fixed it. After another month. Around here, evidently, concepts such as the speed of light have little relevance.

Once it was back, I fell into the habit of typing on the old iMac. Obviously I had forgotten I had transferred all this stuff to the new computer, and therefore had Word.

Yesterday, after doing all this tedious typing and editing, which reactivated the previously described stress levels, it suddenly occurred to me that I was not thinking very effectively, or using my brains. Suddenly, I asked myself why did I not go and activate the other user on the new iMac. So I did. It has Word, the Italian dictionary, and it works  much faster.  It is obviously time to activate my Apple One to One lessons, and have a go at learning how to use the new you-beaut machine more effectively. Now that I am no longer housebound, it is high time I did so. In other words I am fast running out of excuses for inaction, stupidity, and typing mistakes.

The package to the Other Side will be sent tomorrow, just as soon as I have typed a list of the contents. You can't be too careful. Today's mail had another couple of overdue bills. You can see the circumstances under which torturers learn their loathsome trade.

My daughter and her children have been with me all week, and I have been doing a lot of child minding, with plenty of cuddling, which has been good all round. Although I am not being a very entertaining grandmother quite yet, let alone a good cook, we have had a very pleasant time. My daughter has been working very hard and long at her photography, and her talent and perseverance are most impressive.

While the traditional and time-honoured babysitter, aka the TV, was on duty this afternoon, I made quince jelly. It made me feel better, it looks and tastes good, and is the most delectable colour. The grandchildren really like it. However, the yield was only seven small jars and I may have to make some more. Quinces are in season. Hail to the future.