How very appropriate that last time out I was extolling the virtues of Levenshulme's internet cafes, as it seems I might be spending quite a lot of time in them for a little while. Yes, after several years of thinly-veiled threats, temporary works to rule and occasional all-out week-long wildcat strikes reminiscent of the Winter of Discontent, the vintage computer in the back room has finally decided to withdraw its services for good. It's a blessed relief really for all concerned as there is only so much crawling around on the floor fiddling impotently with multicoloured wires (while simultaneously trying to follow advice transmitted down the telephone line by a pleasant man somewhere in the Indian subcontinent) that a man can do. And it gives us an excuse to go to PC World and spend money we haven't got on one of those sleek-looking wireless fellows, which can't be a bad thing.
In the meantime, though, I'll be coming to you from one of the several tiny shops full of banks of computers which are spread out along our stretch of the A6. Actually they are quite conducive places for writing, especially if you come in during the quiet last hour of the day, when you are less likely to be palmed off with the dodgy computer in the corner, or the motheaten swivel chair with the castor missing, and the rumble of the passing 192 buses combines with the interminable, incomprehensible Arabic telephone conversation of the counter guy to produce a pleasing background hubbub which lulls you (well, me, anyway) into a trance-like state. I've been known to come into these places for a quick afternoon half-hour and be surprised to find on re-emerging onto Stockport Road, that Levenshulme has fallen into darkness.
There'll be no time for any of that tomfoolery today though, as it's well-nigh closing time, and the bloke behind the counter has just broken off his interminable telephone conversation to advise a pair of last-minute Africans that they've got just 20 minutes of superfast Broadband-time left before the lights go out and we are all dispatched unceremoniously onto the A6 to take our chances with the buses. So I haven't really got time to tell you about the events of the past month (which included a visit from Frankie's ridiculously cute younger cousin Oscar, I'm sure you'll be hearing plenty about him) or our plans for the next one (starting next week when we are packing our ten-years-old-but-hardly-ever-used tent into the back of the Fiat Punto and, pausing only to studiously ignore the weather forecasts, heading intrepidly in the direction of the Welsh coastline).
OK- the counter guy has put his phone down and is starting to make impatient noises. Next time out, Welsh stories. Feel free to start a sweepstake in the comment box over how long it will take us to get the tent up (previous form suggests anything between 30 minutes and four-and-a-half hours) and how many nights of torrential rain and creepy-crawlies we can withstand before we play the urban softie card, get the credit cards out, and book ourselves shamefacedly into that tempting-looking three-star hotel on the beachfront. Until then, then, look after yourselves....
Funny, I found myself reading that faster and faster in sympathy with the looming closing time you were facing.
And I'd say...25 mins- I think you're niftier with bendy poles than you make out. Have a good one!
Posted by: looby | August 07, 2008 at 10:57 PM
Eeeee, so how did the camping go? I have heard rumours that you made it through the whole week without fleeing -- let's have the stories at once!
Posted by: Abby | August 20, 2008 at 04:09 AM
I'm presuming that by "plans for the next one" you mean next month, not next baby, which is what I originally thought!
I'm thinking a steady 45 minutes for the tent.
Posted by: Paul | August 20, 2008 at 01:11 PM