So the good news is: Hubby successfully doctored the hypochondriac that is our printer. It’s been malingering for weeks, protesting plaintively that its innards were suffering from a major paper feed malaise, when all that was actually causing the jam was a microscopic spec of paper on a sensor. Bloody thing.

The fabulous news is: my laptop arrived.

It’s second hand and, ummm, cosmetically past its best, but when you fail to return to work after maternity leave, you tend to be a tad impoverished and distinctly less picky about appearances. Consequently, I don’t give a rat’s arse what condition it’s in, as long as it permits my chilly person to abandon the freezing office (single radiator, controlled by central heating, programmed by frugal hubby, who conserves his personal heat better than a woolly sodding mammoth) and spend my winter evenings in the living room (single radiator in a huge room; but also one woodburner which, fully stoked by wifey, can melt an average-sized polar cap into Slush Puppie in minutes) perched comfily in my long-coveted Dutailier.

The wifey-piles do prefer soft upholstery when they can get it, but my immersion in the blogosphere has been the cause of some solitary office suffering this summer.

Cough. Annnnnnnd moving right along, the bad news is: the new laptop appears to have router issues, and refuses to actually… route, or whatever the damn things are supposed to do. Despite much cajoling, it will not find our Wifi. John has even attempted to hack into borrow next door’s Wifi – what explanation he was planning to give had the neighbours spotted him standing among the hens with the laptop, I cannot think – but nada.

The crap news is: our office PC has become even more unstable than our child’s newly-acquired locomotive skills, and needs brutally attacking with a fucking great axe Windows re-installing. Should I disappear for a time, I will not… probably… have fallen critical illness insurance victim to a murderous hubby, but rather, will be baffled by a malevolent box of failing electronic junk. Hubby is grinding his teeth over Bradford and Bingley though. And the Halifax. Sigh. I feel we may not be holidaying anywhere at all this year; Hubby will be even more jumpy about expenditure than ever. Can we come to your house? We have a caravan: just sling us a extension lead through the window, and we’ll be quite happy in your garden.

And finally, the uber fabulous news is that I have now lost count of Harry’s solo steps. He managed twenty-something this morning, triumphantly tottering right across his bedroom. I happily took him into town to be measured for his very first pair of proper shoes. And look what they gave us!

Bugger me if I didn’t cry.

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