Forgot to Google crocodile farms yesterday. Note to self: must Google what amnesia is a symptom of.
Second note to self: must Google “consequences of Googling every Goddamn thing on Earth every day”.
What on earth did we do before Google? Oh yes. We Asked Jeeves, or Alta Vista, but they were a bit shit.
Think of launching a new search engine called Go-Find-Out-For-Yourself-You-Lazy-Bastard. Not as catchy a name as Google but it still has merit. Could shorten it to GOFOFYOULAZBEE. Yes. Sounds good. Buy domain name.
Realise it is not a good domain name and consider buying lazybastardsearch.com instead. Much easier to pronounce and remember.
Babe goes to work. Wave her off and take a deep, anxious breath. Slightly scared to turn YouTube on. What colour t-shirt will Joe be wearing today and how erect will his nipples be? Decide this is not something Google is yet likely to know.
Decide to start a spreadsheet to keep track of it instead and publish it online so that, in time, Google will know all about Joe and his multi-coloured protrusions.
Begin to wonder if I should be exposing Rhubarb and Special to this kind of PE.
Read some funny comments on LinkedIn about my blog.
“It’s 3am. I woke up because now I am on my kid’s bedtime routine and can’t possibly sleep 12 hours. I found your ‘journal’. Laughed out loud. Woke the kid inside me.”
I think about writing something witty in return, but it seems shallow. She has made a deep insight.
Write this reply instead:
“Hey Erika! I’m glad it brought a smile to you at such an ungodly hour. And ain’t that the truth. Kids now rule our world! (Like they didn’t before.)
We were watching Jurassic World (again) yesterday and Rhubarb said, “Why can’t those baddies just leave all the dinosaurs alone to live in peace!” I did not disagree. And it reminded me that a “childish” perspective isn’t invalid, wrong, impractical or pie in the sky. It’s the reverse. It’s idealistic and sincere. And what is worth striving for more than a sincere ideal? That’s how we climb mountains, right?”
Think about Babe at the hospital. I hope she’s OK.
Jump on a call with my colleagues. Decide to wear Babe’s pink pyjama top, because it smells of her and I feel lonely.
Rhubarb and Special are watching something downstairs. Actually, I’m not sure what they’re doing. They have been very quiet for a long time. When my call is over I will go hunt for them, after a cup of tea and five minutes sit down and after I’ve watched the second half of Alien Covenant (and hoping it doesn’t have any more plot holes in it).
My colleagues look alarmed. My colleagues block my video stream. Boss sends a chat message: please put a top on that belongs to you.
Note to self: do not add smiley faces to the end of my emails to my colleagues for three days.
Put a white, loose fitting t-shirt on, sniff Babe’s pj top and rejoin the call.
Call ends without further incident.
Drink tea. Stop watching Alien Covenant after fourteen minutes due to an horrendous plot hole. Consider tweeting Ridley Scott: Could you be less plot-holey please!!!
Three exclamation marks should do the trick. Four would be excessive.
Take my empty cup to the kitchen and feel a sharp and sudden stinging pain in my calf. Buddy wants feeding.
Log back on to check email.
Babe returns safely and asks me how the children are.