Well, here we are. It’s 9:30pm and we’re in a tent at a lakeside holiday camp called “Smuggler’s Cove”. Nine thermoactive bodies squeezed into a tent smaller than our loungeroom. And yes, it is raining.
Tiff is asleep, having been sedated, lest the case of mild claustraphobia that came on just now had a chance to get nasty. Lack of adequate connectivity to the interweb has not helped her nerves. My bad for mentioning that the hotel I stayed at for my last business trip had free wireless access. Here, we have an “Internet Kiosk”, which aparently consists of one PC in the back corner of the convenience store with a sign stuck to it.
“Out of order”.
I used to think 54mb wireless was painfully slow. For those who agree, how does 9.6kb GPRS on a mobile phone grab ya? Yep, not even 3G people. That’s why this post looks, feels and smells like it was hand whittled from a lump of driftwood.
I didn’t have to medicate Mrs DBT. I just used good ole psychology. I revealed with a florish that my phone had a small peephole window like access to the web for checking email. Adreneline surged as she pored over her inbox. Then the inevitable: “Go to my blog!”
“…er … That’s not really feasable on this connection …”
“DO IT! NOW!”
Ten minutes later the page finished loading. “s’ready” I say, rolling over to show her.
Gone. Out, like, as they say, a light.
Bugger. Now what?
So now my thumbs ache after 30 minutes of stabbing at this micro keyboard.
She stirrs. “What are you doing?”
“I is Blogging” I snap.
She grunts something about lack of qualifications and goes back to sleep.
Yes, the pain of thumb cramps is real. These aint no gen Y digits. Not by a long shot. But there is also a sense of misguided achievement.
I done blogged, old skool.
The 10pm noise curfew brings blissful silence to the crowded camp. The lights go out & I drift off. Dreams of someone carving the “m” down to an “n” on the sign at the camp gate.