Arg. The television does not work. You would think normally simple electronic equipment could not cause such stress and concern, wouldn't you?
Alas it is.
I have the flat to myself tonight, boyfriend is football training and girlfriend (that's me folks, in case you had not realised) was looking forward to watching her favourite waste of time, the television. It's the perfect opportunity to loose myself in rubbish reality programmes and wistfully witness cookery shows with the hope of picking up top tips, without fearing I am boring the boyfriend with my choice of viewing.
I hasten to add I have worked late, again. Then walked to Tescos to stare at the Pansies, in the hope of purchasing a few to replace the deflated objects in my tubs. The pesky neighbourhood cat has apparently sat on them and deflated them. I have inside knowledge from the landlord, so I also need pesky pet control things to discourage the culprit. Unfortunately the Pansies in Tescos looked half dead already so I treated myself to a bottle of wine, trudged home, indulged in a bubble bath and put a white wash in the washing machine. And still it's a fairly decent hour to waste time in flat.
Which is why I collapsed on the sofa, in pink luxurious dressing gown and glass of vino in hand, to see what the 42 inch screen was offering me in a way of entertainment.
But I pressed the red power button and nothing but the words 'no signal' could be seen.
I decided to press unknown buttons on the remote control, buttons I have never dared press before but have always been curious of their functions.
I turned the television on and off again. Well, if it's good enough advice from the IT department in office regarding PC monitor problems, it's good enough for the Samsung screen fixed to my wall.
This did not work.
Nothing left to do but surf the internet and stalk George Michael.
Before you reach for the restraining order and fret about my sanity and George's well being, I must mention we are twitter friends. Along with approximately 90,000 other friends. Hey, what's a number between fan and superstar?
I learnt George is up to his old tricks and teasing us with the title of his new song, dedicated to Prince William and his future bride. As long as I have not missed any other updates. On Sunday he posted a video of himself talking to and playing with his dogs. We got to hear his voice and see his left leg in his checked jim jams. Sunday was a good day.
Next I googled 'door bells.' The door bell is not working again. I have realised dropping the speaker noise thing from a great height is not a wise idea. It's now a silent speaker noise thing. I compared the cheap replacements and made a mental note to discuss with boyfriend upon his return. If I can not be trusted to work the television my own, I fear for my choice in other gadgets for the home.
I have also googled 'cats on your plants' and discovered I am not alone with this problem. I need to spray perfume on plant apparently. Excellent idea, a rather cheap and easy option, therefore I shall use part of my Benefit perfume (gorgeous bottles, it's all about the packaging) or maybe a squirt of Ghost should do the trick?
What next I pondered?
Arr yes, I know the perfect distraction. Last but never least, I have actually saved the best until last.
Blogging. How are you all my long time internet pals? My cyber chums from across the seas. It feels like the old days when I read and wrote regularly.
Blur, Nick, Amel, Kate, Eryl, Mary and Seagrape. I have dipped into your lives with keen interest and now it's back to mine to type the latest extract from my life.
But what's that familiar noise I can hear?
Boyfriend is back.
I interrupted this blog to watch boyfriend try to operate television and I am happy to report, the television is now in full working order.
Guess what technical process was his solution?
He turned it off and on again, as suggested by important IT geeks on various occasions in relation to technology not working, and it, erm, worked.
I am flabbergasted.
"But I tried that," I protested.
He is looking at me with that funny look on his face. The look that reeks, I do worry about you sometimes Nikki.
It's okay I'm used to it. It's quite a frequent look I see from friends, family and boyfriend.
To be honest, I can not blame him for looking at me like that.
I worry about myself sometimes.
Still, I got to blog. So all is not lost.
Now it's time to make an omelet.
Oh and hang the washing out.
What a life.
Until next time.
And any other mini disasters from the world according to me.