A regrettable publishing hiccup…

‘What you want to do,’ advised Gentleman Steve, ‘is put all your photos on an external hard drive.’ He paused, leaned back, and forked in another mouthful of supper before volubly continuing. ‘And then delete them off your computer.’ Sounds good, I thought, envisioning a pretty nippy browser after 10 GB of pictures had been erased.

What I hadn’t considered is that my Maxtor External Drive, on a capricious whim designed to drive me up the proverbial wall, might give up the ghost. Yes, two years’ worth of photos have disappeared – temporarily or not, I’m as yet unsure. So, as far as I’m concerned, you can blame Steve and his preposterous bilge for a major disruption to my published blogs.

Still, a Davies defeated does not stay defeated for long. The girl in the local computer shop – attired in white laboratory coat, as though she ought to be mixing heinous potions – is dealing with matters as we speak. ‘£35 please,’ she said, ‘but I can’t guarantee retrieving the data.’ I may have paraphrased slightly there, but you get the gist. So can you all please cross your fingers – on that hard drive are some corking photographs due to feature on this site.

While she’s dealing with that, who is going to deal with that duplicitous toad, Gentleman Steve, you ask? Well, I’ve a good mind to head summarily down to Bristol to fetch him a lusty cuff round the ear. What he wants is torturing and flogging to within an ace of his life. Or maybe we could just catch up over a nice cup of tea? We’ll see.

You’ve noticed perhaps, that despite finally finishing the U2 European Tour and being at home, that I’m being a bit sniffy? Well, you’d be right. Bad luck comes in threes, they say? Pah! Child’s play. I’m up to half a dozen at least – mostly due to gross ineptitude on my part, admittedly – so do you mind if I have a little rant? I really only wanted to announce that the blog is on hold for three weeks…but I’m winding up into a vortex of intemperate rage and I could use an outlet.

Right, well skirting the issue of car insurance salesmen that ought to be shot for embezzlement, we’ll head straight to my front door at the seaside in England. We’ll also skirt the toppling, thigh-high pile of letters stacked neatly on the dining room table. (Post is ferried diligently from the front door by my delightful, ancient neighbour, Dot, while I’m away.)

Actually, we might need to address that towering column fairly soonish – one of the first letters informs me that the house insurance expired in September. The next one will no doubt be from the mortgage company informing me that they’ll repossess the property next time I pop out for a granary bloomer from the bakery.

So, without preamble, I pick up the telephone – the pressing plan is to ring round some insurance companies pretty swiftly. Now, where did I put the mobile phone charger? The old battery looks as though it could do with a few extra horsepower. Oh, bloody typical. I left it at my father’s house last night, a trifling distance of 200 miles away. But of course I don’t know this until I’ve turned the car on its head, hissing sibilantly in self-castigation.

Returning to the front door of my uninsured house – will it collapse or combust before I can secure an online quote? – I find it locked. ‘Awfully sorry to bother you again, old reptile,’ I address Dot at her doorway. ‘But I’ve done it again. There’s just no end to it, you know,’ She looks up from somewhere approaching waist-height and hands me the spare key. ‘Ooh, you don’t have to tell me, duck,’ she cackles, ‘we’ve only got five television channels this evening.’

Right, well if that’s the nadir of her afternoon, then excuse me if I don’t brim over with sympathy.

Anyway, three weeks folks. No, tell you what, make it a month – I’m taking a well-earned break.

P.S. These U2 photos have been generously supplied by a reasonably attractive Italian girl I happen to know…