As I type this entry, happily eating what must be said, a very tasty slice of Ham and Pineapple pizza, one thing springs to mind; I have greasy fingers. Usually, I’d be having kittens at this point, but not now. My fingertips dart over the keys, and I have one over-riding thought in my mind. This computer is no longer mine.

It’s happened; two days ago, I was contacted by Executive Relations at Apple UK. My 12″ PowerBook has had it’s warrant signed, by me, and by a Higher Up at Apple. My MacBook has finally been ordered. A Core Duo 2GHz and a Gb of RAM, and a light up keyboard. I’m as happy as anything. They’ve even decided to throw in a new case for me. Really, the speed boost should be the most exciting thing for me, but no. It’s a light-up keyboard. Something I could have had two years ago, in fact, were it available on the 12″ PowerBook range. Never was, and really, never will be. Jacqui has a review up at Ars on the 1.83 Core Duo, and it’s excellent; despite the utter bullshite Slashdot and the News thread generated, it’s well rounded and an actual review of the hardware by a real user, not a regurgitation of the press release.
Either way, I’ve now got to wait until I get a fucking tracking number, and then the agonising weeks until it goes from Pending, Packing, Shipping, Shipped, and then all aboard the Mystery Bus to the middle of the fucking airport, a plane ride to the Netherlands, then to the UK, and handing it over to TNT for lord only knows how long until some under-paid driver hands over my Precious.

I’m in for one fuck of a long wait.

I feel horrid today. For the last week or so, I’ve been waking up feeling drained. I’ve been sleeping well barring the odd moments of waking up, but getting up has been a chore. My head has been spinning, my throat raw, mouth dry, and my chest is rattling. It conspires to make me feel horrid for my birthday. I somehow doubt I’ll be doing anything for it either, now. Bah.

I crave chicken soup, and oddly, red wine. The soup would be a good idea, the red wine, less so. The soup however means I need to get moving and cook as I cannot stand the thought of soup from a can. The wine means I just have to open the bottle, pour, and enjoy.

One would think that sitting at a commuter train station, cold and hungry, with no train home in sight would be a pathetic existence. Lord knows I once did. Week in, week out I’d find at least one services subject to delay, outright cancelled, or, most commonly, defeated by the wrong type of rain.

And once again, tonight I’m at Wimbledon, Platform 9. I’ve come back from Sloane Square, hopped off the Tube, and down the platform, up the concourse, along, and down to 9. And there, on the board, blinking at me in taunting day-glow orange LED, **SERVICE CANCELLED**

I should have stayed in bed, this morning. Lord knows I was tempted. In a toss-up between warm soft sheets and a the prospect of a late breakfast, and the cold pavement, a shave and commuting, then bed wins. Every time. Apart from this morning, when I got up, had a shave, and braved the District line yet another time.

Which reminds me. Most commuters, you know, the kid that zip in and out of the Xity? Fine. These people I can happily deal with. But now and then you get the odd person who honestly has no concept of who, what, where, or when they are. Seriously. And they also always seem to be the ones with basic hygiene problems. Getting off one of the trains today I could hardly contain my breakfast; the carriage stank of this one chap and what seemed to be the smell of stale cocoa butter, curry, and dirty hair. Utterly vile. I’m quite certain that these people have no idea of the stench they produce. If they knew, surely they would make some effort to clean themselves… non?

It’s under my bed, it’s never been read.
It’s in with my school stuff and my mom never cleans in there.
From my first little fib, when I still wore a bib
To my latest attempt at pretending I’m someone
Who’s not seventeen, doesn’t know what you mean
When talk turns to single malts, or stilton, or

While not seventeen, there is a shoe-box under my bed. It used to contain a pair of dark blue Vans; now it’s filled with notes and letters, an armband from the National Trust, a box of crayons, postcards, receipts, some old photographs, too. The sort of thing one keeps in a shoe-box under the bed.

There is so much in that shoe-box that I would love to keep. But there’s also a lot of pain attached to it. Things best forgotten, things I’d rather not remember. It’s like being force-fed tales of a Geo-centric universe, wooden spoon down the throat, as if my liver were being fattened up for some cannibalistic Foie Gras treat.

All that ever was good about the shoe-box I still have elsewhere.

Today, the shoe-box burns.