Got up, put me trousers on

Every time the cursor blinks it's a reproach that I'm not typing anything.

Devon is difficult. That is, I presonally find it hard to do anything here. I can give you a rundown on todays activities:

1) Woke up
2) Wrote an email
3) Walked a dog
4) Watched Time Team
5) Started writing a blog

You see what I mean? I'm including "Woke up" as an activity. With my current lifestle, I could put that on forms under 'hobbies'.

With the shrinking of activities comes the shrinking of horizons. I'm becoming extremely petty about some things, a case in point being that I spent some time today trying to get a CD to play. I had it on before Time Team started, and when I came back and hit the old CD drive button, I thoroughly expected that it would start spinning, blink it's little LED, and give me the live version of Losing My Religion. What it actually did is to start playing the song- so far, so good- then, as Mr Stripe was warming up, a small animated egg-timer appeared. I've learnt to interpret this as a sign of trouble, a sign that the ghost in the machine is getting reading to throw some crockery around. No more than thirty seconds can have passed before RealOne appeared and started whingeing about not being connected to the internet. All was not over, though. Windows Media Player appeared, cast a jealous eye at RealOne cutting in on it's territory, and smugly started trying to play Track One (4:50). Mr Stripe didn't like this, and started stuttering. A blue screen appeared. The angels that Apple employ to make things wondeful laughed cruelly as they flew overhead on their way to someone more fortunate or prudent than I.

This battle of wits between man and machine was the single most blood-raising thing that happened today.

To be fair, I don't live a life of danger. I don't crace the thrill of having nothing but a length of over-extended elastic rope between me and noisy, gelatinous death. My ideal holiday is more likely to include tea at the City Museum than wrestling a carniverous sea-lizard in the Orinocco estury. The main sport in my life is not climbing, kayaking or even football. It's hillwalking, where the challenege is to keep a steady pace on a straight line for as long as possible. Excitiement is a rare spice for me, and that's how I like it. The trouble is, around here, to see someone my own age I have to walk three miles and that's if you don't mind going cross-country.

I have patience, though. I'm husbanding my strength, because tomorrow I'll pack up my rucksack. It's the old reliable, veteran of several hundred moorland miles as well as my companion on every holiday in recent years. Then I'll be on the trains, which for me has all the romance and mytic appeal of travel that most people associate with Dick Turpin or Robin Hood.

The Widewalker strides again.

Song in my head: "Venice Queen" by Red Hot Chilli Peppers