Anyway, much self-flagellation later, my computer is more infected virally than Robert Carlisle in that gruesome sequel. Nothing works. Pressing anything draws a steady whir from the hard drive, that slowly intensifies until I'm certain faint laughter can be heard. My icons have disappeared. There's no start menu. Safe mode offers minimal usage, but no Interweb. Penning this has taken longer than some stories I've written.
A friend is coming around tonight to inspect the damage, whereupon I suspect we will either a) return it to the factory settings, or b) return it to the ground floor via a first floor window.
In the meantime, have a look at this very interesting article by a literary agent. A shift in the balance of power perhaps...
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
HIGHLY INFECTED AREA
A few weeks ago I tried to stream some live cricket through some egregious pop-up website. I know. But where I live, it's impossible to watch anything without sticking a large dish on the side of your house. In fact, being a listed cottage, it would have to go in the garden. And besides, being an impoverished writerly sort, I can't afford it.