Anyone in need of hosting?

For a number of reasons, I’ve just bought a re-seller account for webhosting (well, I say a number of reasons: I want to get the multitude of domains I have in one place, with a standard set of features, and reliable uptime, rather than scattered across half a dozen ISPs). But I’m not going to use *all* the space I’ve got. So if anyone’s looking for some small-scale hosting for their personal site, then give me a shout and we can talk prices…

I’m sure I had something to say a minute ago…

But I’ve forgotten why I opened the bloody LJ client, now.

Ah, yes, that was it. Anyone want a ticket to go see Nick Cave at Alexandra Palance on the 25th of August? It was pointed out to me tonight that I’m not going to be in London, since I’m off to a family wedding in Belfast instead. So, 25 quid to you. I would prefer to meet up and do a proper exchange, if humanly possible, rather than arsing around with cheques and posting things, because I’m a complete shambles at anything involving envelopes and stamps.

Staff managment:

At 4pm today, most of the line managers in my company were called to a meeting. Not, however, my boss. (This may be because we’re in a tiny satellite office – my company’s equivalent of Siberia, and tend to get overlooked, or it may be something else, I don’t know.)

At 5pm today, when they returned to their staff, they were instructed to give out a message to their staff: “We have made some people redundant already. We will be making some more people redundant next week, but we can’t tell you who right now.”

Am I then only one that things that telling your workforce at 5pm on a Friday that you’ll be sacking some of them next week, but not telling them who, is a stonkling poor piece of management, to say nothing of a basic failure as humans to have a regard for the mental states of those you employ?

Material things.

It’s funny how we get attatched to material things, isn’t it? I mean, I have more junk than any sane man should. My room is a tip.

I got home tonight, and found the front door ajar. Someone seems to have been in, and gone through the most ovbious rooms in the flat – the downstairs hall, and my bedroom, which is at the top of the stairs.

Thankfully, my room is a tip. There was only one obvious and easily portable thing of value sitting out in the room.

My Nikon D70.

I’m in tears. I can’t afford another, and we don’t have household insurance, because I was too fucking stupid to get it sorted out in time.

I’m fucked. I owe most of a grand on a camera that I adored, and have now lost and cannot afford to replace, and I’m in tears over it. I would never have thought that loosing a material possession could fuck me up like this.

Shit.