The very helpful chappie in PC Parts reassures me that, despite the dire warnings which keep flashing up on my laptop telling me that it is about to crash because I have used up every scrap of space on my hard drive, in
fact I have only used about 25% of the space available. This is why it pays to go to The Professionals.
In the Olden Days, when I was a Working Gal, I could just
put in a call to the Help Desk and sooner or later someone would come along to my office and get me out of whatever computer nightmare I had got myself into. In retirement, I have to sort things out for myself. Mr B is no help at all as he is a
Mac Man, wedded forever to his Apple Mac and completely resistant to any suggestion that it might not be compatible with other operating systems. Especially with mine. “Don’t ask me,” he says, when I start worrying away about my computer
glitches, “Get yourself a Mac.”
Far more helpful was the Son In Law, who says he will sort me, or rather, my computer out this weekend. All I
need to do is to buy myself an external hard drive. Hence my trip to PC Parts this morning and my conversation with the cheerful chappie about the availability of space on my hard drive. He has now serviced my laptop, checked it is all working satisfactorily
and sold me an external hard drive. It has a trillion bytes of memory. This is amazing. Not that it has a trillion bytes of memory but that I am writing about bytes as if I know what I am talking about.
After our trip to PC Parts, we decide to head down to the sea-front to enjoy the sunshine. I am definitely feeling a little less queasy today but I know that my dear Mum, if she were here, would be urging me to go and “breathe
in the fresh sea air.” The Youngest of the Darling Daughters, as if taking on her grandmother’s mantle, texts with similar advice, ending her text with the words “Doctor’s Orders!” Unfortunately by the time we get down to the
promenade, a thick sea mist has rolled in from the sea and we can hardly see where we are walking. We repair to the Marine Gardens cafe where we eat tomato soup and a sandwich and enjoy a chat.
In the late afternoon, while the curry is cooking, I phone the Little Welsh Boys. Only the Littlest Boy is at home and he is watching In the Night Garden on the TV. I know he loves me but I have to accept that I come
a rather poor second to Iggle Piggle, at least when the TV is on. I can hear his protest as the programme is switched off – “Iggle Piggle is all gone now,” his mum tells him. “Noooo!” he cries, as if in pain.
Nevertheless we have a good chat, vying with each other as to who can send the most, and the loudest, kisses down the telephone line. I wouldn’t like to say who
Tomorrow we will be celebrating once again. Life is one long celebration in our family. Tomorrow it is the turn of the Youngest of the Daughters to mark her
birthday. I’m so pleased we can join her. I have wrapped up her present, written her card, thought about what I need to pack in our weekend case and enjoyed several quiet reminiscences of my own about the day she was born – at 4.15 in the morning,
to be precise.
About this time in the evening all those years ago, we phoned the midwife to alert her to the fact that Things Were Happening. Her response was
rather like Young Morgan’s response to my phone call this afternoon – only she was watching The Onedin Line, rather than In the Night Garden. For Iggle Piggle, substitute Anne Onedin. We said we – and our baby - were sure
we could wait till the programme had finished....
So many memories crowd into my mind. At least a trillion of them, I reckon. Fortunately I don’t need an
external hard drive on which to store them.
I just keep them in my heart.