The Boy is not happy. Our ridiculously loudly whirring computer box was turned off to accomodate a guest in the spare room on Friday night and it's not turned on since. We (who am I kidding, I have no understanding on the subject) HE believed it was the memory stick, but first checked the motherboard, power supply and RAM. This required two trips to the shop believing one of the elements to be faulty, only to be looked at by the bespectacled and bespotted twerp in Maplin like he was a philistine who then proceeded to demonstrate its perfect working order in front of him.
Gutting...
I just asked him to explain in geekspeak the problem for the literary purposes of blogland and he began with It's f*cked and relented with I don't want to talk about it. And left the room...
This is about as moody, sulky or badtempered as he gets, but as it happens so infrequently, all I want to do is hug and help... Not allowed or able to do either, and he is now curled over the old motherboard, stroking the processor murmuring What's wrong with you?
Despite six years of medical training, I have to say I never get this kind of sympathy or undivided attention over forty eight hours when I'm ill...
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1 comment:
The Boy has my profound sympathies. There's nothing more likely to reduce me to monosyllabic expletives than an intractible technical problem. Sadly, matters are not helped by P's valiant attempts (a) to understand what the problem is, and (b) to offer assistance. Ungrateful, I know.
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