Friday, 23 November 2012
Wednesday afternoon after my TV appearance and I have work from the Daily Mail again, so I'm busy.
"Look..." I say to Middle One, who has just come home from school and strolled in to the office to set up his usual camp at the other desk where there's a second, older, iMac computer.
It's his routine to play music while having tortuous pedantic arguments on Facebook with friends he has left behind at school barely half an hour ago.
"Playing music all the time in the office when I'm trying to write is one thing, but you will have to turn it off for a moment and keep quiet now while I make this important phone call to the editor. Do you understand?"
"Yeees..." says Middle One in an exasperated tone, putting his feet up on husband's desk.
"Good." I say, and I turn back to my own desk and punch in the number and proceed to have a detailed conversation about exactly what they want me to write by the end of Friday while attempting to sound competent, but most of all, seasoned.
And I'm just in the middle of talking about the fee, employing the most professional voice I can muster, when suddenly Middle One jumps up and shouts: "Jesus Christ the computer has just died! Look! It's just died on me! Oh my God!" And so I completely miss the last thing the editor says and now I have no idea what they are paying me.
But I hope it's a lot because I think we may need a new computer.