Ernest Hemingway with Lady Duff Twysden, Hadle...

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As I admitted in a previous post, I fried my laptop.  Again.

I was all ready to cash in my coffee insurance, and was even a little proud of myself that I managed to do THE EXACT SAME THING a second time.  I was racking up crazy writer points.  To go with my Post-It notes and pens and frizzy hair.  Or something.

I had come to terms with the fact that my machine would stay fried, again.  I might have started lusting after Hemingway’s replacement.  Other people name their cars.  I name my computers.  That’ll be another crazy writer point.  See, I don’t even have to try.

I was more than a little surprised when Sarge said he might be able to fix it.  What?  No new toy?  Yes, my boyfriend is a computer geek.  Actually, a Senior Computer Geek.  Or something.

So he did this, and that, and the other thing made an intergalactic noise.

And so, on Saturday he took it to the Gadget Hospital, better known as his parents house.  His Dad took it to pieces, and apparently those pieces  were dried out in different parts of the house.

I may have stayed in my own house, having guilt-free cheesecake while Hemingway dried out.  Just maybe.

The latest report from the Gadget Hospital is that the 6 key is the only key that still sticks.  And this amuses me.  Because 6 is my favourite number.  6 is plucky, and stubborn.  And it needs to get unstuck.

Because as much as I  love playing country music on Sarge’s computer while he can’t stop me, I’ve had enough new technology.  I’ve realised that nothing can replace Hemingway.

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