I had a truly terrible experience this afternoon.
I have been writing my latest story.
It is not an especially magnificent story, but I am hoping very much that one day somebody will be interested in buying it. Indeed, I have been encouraged in this daydream by my Cambridge tutor, who has read most of it and liked it so much that she has promised to pass it across to her agent when eventually I have finished it.
I have very nearly finished it. That is to say, if I could manage to write two thousand words every day I would probably have finished it by the time Mark came back from his oil rig. I am not really expecting to write two thousand words every day, not least because there are a lot of other things to be done with a day, but it is my Goal. I recently listened to an Inspirational Book on the talking books thing on my telephone, and that insisted that to achieve anything of importance one needs clearly defined Goals.
These have to be more specific than: Write A Brilliant Book And Make A Fortune. These have to be broken down into bits like Finish Writing Chapter One.
Really it means that you just have to make lists. I do that anyway, because otherwise I forget all about things until it is too late and then have to set out to work with a picnic that is still icy cold and lumpy because it was in the freezer until five minutes before I set off.
I have made a List, although writing two thousand words every day was not on it. It was full of humdrum activities like Hoover The Stairs, which I did, with a sigh of relief when it was done and my conscience was clear, about those stairs at least, there are still two more flights of them to go.
Anyway, this is not telling you about my terrible experience this afternoon.
I had rushed round doing all of my listed jobs, you will be pleased to hear that rushing into Kendal to Marks and Spencer was the first, where I blew absolutely all of this week’s taxi earnings on some smoked mackerel and a bunch of hyacinths. This felt joyfully reckless and splendid. I like mackerel very much, when I was expecting Lucy this turned into a ravening compulsion, and I ate tins and tins of it. I am not expecting a baby any more, but still like mackerel occasionally, especially if there is nobody else around to notice the not-terribly-subtle scent of smoked mackerel for dinner. This is not sophisticated, and no amount of bluebell perfume or sandalwood soap can disguise it, and so it is best done when one is alone.
The hyacinths, on the other hand, had an absolutely gorgeous scent, and I have divided them into vases between the kitchen, the bedroom and my office, since I don’t bother with the rest of the house when I am by myself, and their fragrant loveliness even inspired me to hoover and dust, because it would not have been lovely for their delicate perfume to be overlaid with the carpet-smells of muddy dog and Mark’s socks.
After the hoovering came the Terrible Experience.
I settled myself at the computer with a cup of steaming chai, and determinedly ploughed into my story. It was a difficult bit, one that I have not been looking forward to writing, but I persevered, and two thousand words later I had conquered it, and was out on the sunlit uplands of the next chapter.
I was just sighing with relief when the cursor key on the computer began to behave strangely.
It began charging across the screen all by itself.
I tried to stop it, but to no avail. Then I tried to Save what I had written so that I could stop the computer and restart it.
Not only would it not Save, the cursor hovered for a terrible moment, and then wiped away the whole lot, as cleanly as if I had soaked my duster in bleach.
I gulped and squeaked.
Every word gone, the whole difficult two thousand words, and still the cursor was charging off uncontrollably, like Rosie when she sees a cow in the distance.
I felt jolly sick, I can tell you. I knew that I had written them once, and never would bother again, and so this moment would mean the end of my story for all of time.
I tried everything I could think of, which did not take very long since I am not very creative when it comes to solutions for cyber-problems, but in the end I telephoned Apple.
A very nice Irish lady made sympathetic noises and climbed inside my computer so that I could see her red arrow, and together we explored the problem.
After a little while she wondered if perhaps I should turn my mouse off and on again.
I did that, and to my enormous relief, it worked. After that we pressed Undo several times, and to my absolute delight, my words reappeared.
I clicked Save then, several times, just to be sure, and thanked the kindly Apple lady most profusely.
I was profoundly and sincerely grateful, and more pleased than if the words had just stayed where they were supposed to in the first place.
I was saved.
I did not write any more then. I went downstairs and got my picnic ready for work, marvelling at my great good fortune.
It has been a very Lucky Day.
