Distracted

Beguiled as I have been, by the potential of these various applications I now have, I have managed to waste an entire evening - part of it by nattering, not necessarily profitably, with romney and boroshan. We three are Skyped to the max and decided to try out the conference function. We are clearly not used to the software, yet.

As long as any two of us were online, it all worked as advertised, but three seems to be pushing it - which is a bore since that's why we were using the bugger in the first place. With no change in settings from me, it appears that my microphone just got quieter and quieter over the evening, whilst boroshan would move from very clear to sounding like he was talking from inside a full aquarium in Timbuktu, an effect at times, not unlike the Aquaphibians from Gerry Anderson's oldie but goldie, Stingray.

Clearly we have some further refinements to make before this all works quite the way we envisaged. Not least the inter-person protocols. At one point, much to the consternation of the software and the participants, we all tried to dial each other up at the same time.

Hilarity ensued. Only as in not funny. Oh well.

Tomorrow night, I shall not be logging in on any communications variant, as I really want to get some more writing done, and I am still finding it difficult to get a flow going. All this fancy comms tech is just getting in the way, right now, so surf silent, surf deep and alert no-one to your online presence is the motto for Wednesday. Maybe that way I can write more than one and a half sentences in two hours.

Distracted

Beguiled as I have been, by the potential of these various applications I now have, I have managed to waste an entire evening - part of it by nattering, not necessarily profitably, with romney and boroshan. We three are Skyped to the max and decided to try out the conference function. We are clearly not used to the software, yet.

As long as any two of us were online, it all worked as advertised, but three seems to be pushing it - which is a bore since that's why we were using the bugger in the first place. With no change in settings from me, it appears that my microphone just got quieter and quieter over the evening, whilst boroshan would move from very clear to sounding like he was talking from inside a full aquarium in Timbuktu, an effect at times, not unlike the Aquaphibians from Gerry Anderson's oldie but goldie, Stingray.

Clearly we have some further refinements to make before this all works quite the way we envisaged. Not least the inter-person protocols. At one point, much to the consternation of the software and the participants, we all tried to dial each other up at the same time.

Hilarity ensued. Only as in not funny. Oh well.

Tomorrow night, I shall not be logging in on any communications variant, as I really want to get some more writing done, and I am still finding it difficult to get a flow going. All this fancy comms tech is just getting in the way, right now, so surf silent, surf deep and alert no-one to your online presence is the motto for Wednesday. Maybe that way I can write more than one and a half sentences in two hours.

Wilting, part III

Ah, the last day of August and also the hottest.

The trouble with being a lardy boy is that it really, really doesn't take much heat for you to feel like growing flippers and heading back to the sea. There were times today - in fact right now is one of them - when I just feel like Mr Fantastic, but without the vertical hold.Just a puddle of me with a couple of sad eyeballs on top.

I am looking forward to complaining about how cold The Tower is in mid January. I shall sit here wrapped in layer after layer of thick woollies and mutter about being unable to feel my fingers and toes, and how my breath is freezing in my beard. I shall wipe my sleeve across the monitor to clear the condensation, and hack away, both on the keyboard, and because I have 'flu, and be merrily unconscious of any irony whatsoever.

Time now to agonise over proper writing. I was in the mood to write today at work, and then the gods of microsquash intervened with the Blue Screen of Death, and I was unable to do anything but grumble for two hours before coming home early.

Memory dumps to physical disc are rarely good news. I find that to be true in many situations.

Wilting, part III

Ah, the last day of August and also the hottest.

The trouble with being a lardy boy is that it really, really doesn't take much heat for you to feel like growing flippers and heading back to the sea. There were times today - in fact right now is one of them - when I just feel like Mr Fantastic, but without the vertical hold.Just a puddle of me with a couple of sad eyeballs on top.

I am looking forward to complaining about how cold The Tower is in mid January. I shall sit here wrapped in layer after layer of thick woollies and mutter about being unable to feel my fingers and toes, and how my breath is freezing in my beard. I shall wipe my sleeve across the monitor to clear the condensation, and hack away, both on the keyboard, and because I have 'flu, and be merrily unconscious of any irony whatsoever.

Time now to agonise over proper writing. I was in the mood to write today at work, and then the gods of microsquash intervened with the Blue Screen of Death, and I was unable to do anything but grumble for two hours before coming home early.

Memory dumps to physical disc are rarely good news. I find that to be true in many situations.