Alasdair Watson

We’ve decided that this flat has some kind of electronic death jinx. In the not-quite-a-month since I moved in, my iPod died (and then came back), Andrew’s monitor died, Marysia’s new computer shat itself and then her scanner blew up, and today, both Andrew’s new TV and his computer have choked.

I’ve spent the night fighting with his machine, which bluescreens whenever you try to boot in anything but safe mode. I have got somewhere, in that I’ve determined what doesn’t work. I suspect that something has gone bad in the registry after I installed an Alcatel USB modem, but I don’t know what – the one site I found that was any help was pointing me at keys that simply weren’t in his registry. I’ve uninstalled everything I can think of to do with the modem, and still it throws a wobbly.

Here’s a question, kids – I don’t know much about Win98: if I simply re-install Win98 over the top of his current installation, will that wipe all his files and bits and pieces, or is it bright enough to only write over it’s own system bits? Would doing this repair a damaged system? Would Andrew be left spending weeks replacing all his old shotcuts and gubbins?

Basically – how can I fix a fucked Win98 install without resorting to a complete wipe clean? Are there any tools out there to help me with the registry? Or anything?

I think I’m supposed to be fixing Marysia’s computer tonight. Tomorrow night, I’m going to try and persuade my Dad to lend me some kit, to apply a temporary fix to our house network (well, I say “fix”, but actually it’s to get it working as we want it to – we’re waiting on a replacement router, because the one we were sent is deficient in the wireless department, and I’m hoping he’ll lend me his wireless access point for a week or so). Thursday night, I’m fixing Fin’s computer.

I am filled with cold dread when working on computers owned by my friends. I hate doing it. I always feel like whatever is wrong with their computer is my fault, and that if I’m the one that has to pronouce a machine dead, or in need of a formatting, or if it’s something I simply don’t know enough to fix, or even if I just discover that I need a bit of software I don’t own, that somehow I’ve failed them. That I’ve let them down.

This is irrational. I am a perfectly competent IT support boy. It’s been part of my job for four years, office network support. And in my professional capacity, I have no hesitation in pronoucing a machine dead, for wiping everything and starting over. And I have no sympathy for users who lose data, either. If it’s important, it should be backed up. As an IT professional, I know that computers aren’t infalible. Parts give out, software becomes corrupt, hard drives get old and tired, wear and tear causes computers to just die. You wouldn’t expect a car to last forever, why would you expect a computer to last forever?

But as soon as the paycheque isn’t involved, as soon as it actaully *isn’t* my problem, I tense up. I second guess myself. I feel guilty when I have to tell them that they’ve lost years worth of stuff.

I can guess, in part, why it is – nobody likes being the bearer of bad tidings. Everyone wants to be liked, and giving people bad news is not a good way to do it. And nine times out of ten, if someone needs my help with a dead computer, it’s pretty horribly dead.

But I find it amusing that when it was my professional responsibility to ensure a computer operated, I had no problem with admitting defeat, and saying that no, the only solution was a new computer. And then when it genuinely isn’t my problem, and I’m only doing it to help out, suddenly I feel much more obligated to make it work, even when I know it may be impossible.

Well, that’s what I felt like when I got to the March yesterday, and realised I’d forgotten my camera. So, no pictures of the March. It’s not that I don’t think there’s a case for going to war against Iraq – I think there’s a very strong one, and I’m quite prepared to believe that Bush and Blair (well, maybe just Blair) know more than they can jusitifiably tell us – it’s a sad truth of intelligence that governments something cannot reveal what they know to be true, because they found out in a less than legal manner. The problem is that until they can convince the public that there’s a case for war without resorting to scare tactics, then I can’t support it. No matter the reason, there is no mandate for leading a country to war if it’s against the will of the population, which is why I went to the march, even if only for a little while. Convince the people, and I’ll go along with it, even if it flies in the face of my pacifist beliefs.

I am in the mood for death. Lots of it, and all of it other people’s. Last night I left the office, heading up to town to pick up a Surprise for a friend of mine. Not a Valentine’s surprise, just an ordinary, run of the mill surprise. I had bought my travelcard at lunchtime, as I generally do when I’m heading up to London. So, I got to Victoria, and discovered that I’d lost my travelcard. Fuck. So, back to Battersea Park to buy another, yeah?

No. The ticket machine wasn’t accepting notes, and the ticket office was closed. So I bought a single to Victoria, intending to buy a travelcard on the underground. Naturally, the machines that take cash or cards weren’t working there, either, and the queue for the ticket office was about three weeks long. So I thought fuck it, and used the last of my change to buy a single to Tottenham Court Road, where I was going to sort out the surprise.

When I got to TCR, I discovered that my wallet, that I know I had at Victoria, was gone. Oh, and the person I was picking the Surprise up from hadn’t got it with them – they’ve been run ragged over the last week, and it was the last thing on their minds. Fair enough.

So I borrowed a mate’s mobile in order to report the wallet as gone, and a tenner to get a ticket home, giving up on my day.

And then I got up this morning to discover that we have no hot water. I’m not sure why.

The Lego Tarot. Perhaps not very useful, but amusing…

It seems my iPod is working again, after I’d resigned myself to shipping ti back and getting a replacement, so it’s time to drop Faerie Stories and Nocturama across, and build a few new playlists before heading out in to the world. Smart Mobs arrived today, so I think I’ll try and leave early for the pub, and get a bit of time to read and think.

I was talking to Andrew last night about my next web project (and yes, I am aware that every single one I’ve mentioned in the last 18 months has failed to materialise). I’ve been re-tooling Thoughtbombs in my head for a while now. The initial idea is still there – the single, short weekly essay on just about any topic, that’s still the core of it. I don’t have the time to commit to more than that (not that I’d be writing them, but simply in terms of commisioning and managing the content) but I want to expand it out a bit past that, form it into a sort of community based thing, but on a slightly different model. So I’m going to have a look through Smart Mobs, and see if that sparks anything off in my head.

It’s going to be at least 18 months before I really get around to this in earnest, but it’s just something to think about, build the systems for, and generally have ready for when I’ve got the time. But it also means that I’ve got lots of time to make it clever and unique. Hence, the reading and re-modelling as I go.

Tomorrow I pay off a loan, and legally take up residence in the flat. And on Sunday, I’m going to start putting our new network together, in preparation for Broadband on Monday. Have a good weekend, folks.

Worried about the dreadful lessons movies teach children today? So are these people.

Tonight, I am mostly feeling petulant. I’m really not proud of this. Allow me to explain:

Fin has an interview for art college coming up, so she’s had to get a portfolio to take her work around with her. It’s quite heavy. So I thought I’d surprise her on her way home from work, and carry her portfolio back to her place for her, before heading home to do the the jobs I needed to do tonight. So I bought my ticket from the office to Wallington, where she lives, and then hopped off the train at West Croydon, because I knew she’d be on that route home, and about what time she’d be there. I couldn’t leave the station, but I could wait on the platform.

So I waited there for half an hour, and then assumed I’d missed her, and chuckled ruefully that my good deed had gone a bit wrong. I got a bit worried when I phoned her at home to have a laugh about it, and she wasn’t in, but figured that maybe she’d had to work late, and I’d missed her in the other direction.

Turns out that no, I hadn’t missed her – she’d gone from work to a friend’s birthday party. She’d completely forgotten it was that friend’s birthday until her sister rang to remind her. So, y’know, just one of those things.

And there is where the childish bit comes in. See, I dislike the friend in question. Now, I know it wasn’t her fault, or indeed, anyone’s fault. It was, as I say, just one of those things. And still, there’s a nasty childish part of me that blames her. That’s annoyed at her for blowing my good deed. That’s put out with her that I sat for half an hour in the freezing bloody cold, and took much longer to get home than I should have. I know it’s not her fault. I don’t blame her, not really – I mean, it’s her birthday, for christ’s sake – of course she’s entitled to a good day on her birthday, with her friends about her. I wish her a happy birthday. But still, I’m feeling childish and petulant, and a tiny part of me wants something to go wrong for her tomorrow, just to get a bit of petty revenge.

Not really very grown up, is it?

I love the London Underground. I love to travel by tube. The only time a delay really bothers me on the tube is if I’ve arranged to meet someone – if it’s a commute to or from work, or if I’m just going somewhere in London on my own, I really don’t mind the delays – I’m willing to deal with the fact that sometimes, things just go wrong. As a general rule, I’m grateful and sympathetic toward those who make the Underground work. (Part of this is that I don’t often have to commute by tube, the last few months notwithstanding.)

The central line is out of service for the next couple of weeks, and several of my friends are up in arms, screaming and ranting. Were I still in my old job, I’d be utterly fucked, and probably a bit put out myself. But still – it’s out of service for good reasons, like public saftey (read the government’s abject and cowardly refusal to put in the money it requires to actually bring the damn thing up to date). And still, it’s London Underground that are blamed.

So y’know, while everyone else is upset and hating the underground, I thought I’d take a moment to just reiterate: I love the tube. Even at rush hour.

Just for the sake of balance, y’know?

Anyone caught informing the world that “It’s Snowing”, or that it “Looked like it was snowing, but it didn’t settle” will be taken out the back and assaulted by a large number of crazed gila monsters.