One of an infinite number of monkeys.

[...] says blogging fulfils an essentially adolescent need to feel that what you have to say is interesting to other people; it’s to do with a lack of confidence as opposed to a genuine need to say something. This may well be true, but it’s very frustrating saying so much, all day long, and have no-one hear and have no idea whether it’s even worth saying. At least with the blog it gets aired. And anyway, in his Eight Stages of Psychosocial Development, Eric Erikson, the father of the identity crisis (he actually chose to call himself that, for goodness sake) defined adolescence as being between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. Thus I have another year for such pursuits, another year for the battle between my search for identity and role confusion to reach its dramatic climax.

A friend once said to me, “You know that theory that if you get an infinite number of monkeys give them an infinite number of type-writers, you’ll eventually get a Shakespearean work? Well, I think the Internet has well and truly disproved that one.” So at the very least, I intend be part of this disproof. Surely it is better the monkeys to express their own thoughts and feelings as opposed to aping (pun intended) the work of a long dead Englishman?

The oddest site I have seen this week (directed to by my nearly-but-not-quite-yet brother-in-law) is Bwired.nl - “a real-time on-line home in the Netherlands” including such enthralling information as when the refrigerator was last opened and how long it was opened for. I’m sure this information could be useful. I’m just yet to work out how.

I’m hoping that I will be able to do something exciting to tell you about soon. I could tell you about how the book is going but it's very dull - how it is going, not the work itself which is okay so far as I can tell. Managed to feature a knife with a berated blade as opposed to a serated blade and I managed to use the word "buttocks" at a moment of tension (in summary there was someone in the cellar, the power had gone from the house so we're in total darkness, our heroine slid down the stairs landing on her buttocks - unfortunately even in this completely reasonable context the word sends me into hysterics).

Maybe next week I'll get out of the house. I haven’t fainted in a few days but I have forgotten to make another doctor’s appointment. If the weekend goes all right I will wait for my normal GP to return; he is very groovy, gives me eye-contact, rides a motorbike, says that medicine is more an art than a science, is training to climb Everest and once complemented me on my jeans. I presume he meant jeans with a j not genes with a g, although he also once carelessly said that there would be nothing wrong with me if I wasn’t so seriously ill. That wasn’t very helpful.