Scary old day

August 24, 2012

Scary old day

I am a creature of habit. I fear change - always have, always will. And when change comes in the form of technology that is even more scary.

I have battled for the last 18 months with the world's slowest computer. It is really pants and is so frustrating. I think Nigel has finally come to the conclusion he can't stand the noise as I shout at it.

I do so much graphic work now that I really need something that works with decent RAM and a good graphics card. So we have been looking at new computers.

Yikes

It isn't even the money that worries me .... I have been saving up. It is the transferring of everything, the re-installing of drivers and programs and the fact that I know a couple of things are likely to be a problem.

That is what worries me.

So tomorrow may be D Day and the time to actually purchase the new beastie, so if I disappear, you will know why!

Meanwhile I have scrapped for this week's challenge on UKS which needed tearing (I can do that), stitching (I always do that), photos taken this month and ribbon - but used in a different way not just stuck down flat.

So here is my tribute to Nigel and his trains ... our visit to Swanage last week.

The greeny colour paper is actually from a DCWV pad that I bought in America this summer and the train is glossy (lots of spot lamination on this DCWV pad)

It was just perfect for the page.

The Swanage title and the steam train at the bottom are actually scans of a postcard I bought there.

I have my photo of the day for today which I took in the Dolphin Centre (Our indoor mall in Poole) and it is a sand sculpture.

I still haven't downloaded yesterday's.

Today I am thankful for

Nigel to hold my hand through the maze that is new PC technology with Ram of all types

And here are another few of the photos from that great young photographer.

This is one of my absolute favourites

I LOVE this one

and finally my page of the day calendar page.

It’s 5:40 A.M., and I can hear William’s alarm. He needs to take an early bus for his job as a counselor at a summer camp. When he was younger and had to wake up early, I would get up with him. I’d fix his breakfast, pack his lunch, see him off. But he’s 18 now, and even if I wished to do those things, he prefers his independence. “You don’t need to get up,” he said the night before.

From my bed, I am aware of his movements—the clank of his spoon against the cereal bowl, the front door opening as he picks up the paper, the water in the sink when he washes the dishes. His mom will be pleased that he remembered that, I think. I hear his duffel bag brush the floor. And I start wondering: Does he have enough money? Did he remember to pack his retainer? Does he have any sunscreen? Okay, he’s a responsible kid, but I miss being needed. I fear that when that door finally slams shut, it’s closing on me.

I need to trust that all that Carol and I have done as parents will hold him in good stead. Isn’t that the whole point of parenting? If you do a good job, you put yourself out of a job.

I get up and tell him, “Have a good time at camp.”

“Bye, Dad.” He gives me a hug. Nice to be needed for that. Then the door slams shut, and I hear his footsteps scrambling down the sidewalk as he races to catch his bus.