step in time

No internet is not a fun place in my world. I never thought I’d react all that badly to being without it, but there it is. It is like being denied something that you partake in so frequently it doesn’t mark itself on your memory significantly. I’d compare it to being denied coffee or wine with dinner. It’s fine when you’re doing something else, like reading, riding the bus, whatever. But when the moments settle down, you think, “A glass of red wine would be so nice right now.”

I think the reason I hate not having internet is because I can’t write to people. I’m terrible at answering e-mails on time as it is, but I feel so much better about it when I can at least know that the possibility of me being a responsible friend actually exists. I mean, who knows. I’ve not written to Sally in about 6 months, but hey, today could be the day. No internet takes that away from me, and then I have no choice but to worry that poor Sally is sitting there thinking about how horrible I am to have ignored her so completely. If I were able, I could just tell her of my plight… but this requires internet. (I mean, why the hell would I call her? So very archaic.)

Really, I have no friends named Sally, though in the last five minutes I have managed to convince myself to go find one. I don’t think I’d get too far with that, as no one seems to have that name anymore. It seems a good cat name though. (Things to do: 1. Buy cat. 2. Name cat Sally.)

So now I live in London, land of limited internet connection. (BT openzone my foot). It has been 2.5 weeks since my relocation from the peaceful Dorset coast and I’ve managed to learn a couple of things (though not many) about London. The first is that London functions like some giant machine that drains your energy. I get up to go to work, travel around a bit, do some work which is moderately but not insanely taxing, travel around a bit more, end up home. My work day is no longer than it was in Dorset. Quite possibly it is shorter. Anyway, by 8pm I am in my pyjamas, and by 9pm there is really no communicating with me. Apparently I am 97.

But another thing I’ve learned is that THERE ACTUALLY ARE CHIMNEY SWEEPS IN LONDON. No, seriously. Our neighbour had them over to sweep the chimneys in the old Victorian building that we live in. I even got to MEET them. Total disappointment though, as they didn’t look adorably sooty and carried no classic wire brushes. Damn. So I patiently waited for them to suddenly burst into song and dance, and when that didn’t happen I was thisclose to yelling at them, “What kind of crap London chimney sweeps are you, you don’t even sing and dance!!” Honestly, what is the world coming to when there are no dancing chimney sweeps in London, I ask you. Dark days. My bubble is officially of the burst variety. Next thing I know, I will be down at St. Paul’s cathedral only to find out that you can’t even feed the birds for tuppence a bag.