Over the Ocean

No Internet yet. It turns out that my actual, postal address is different from my glass-and-copper Telstra address. What larks!

I'll be in Dunedin next week, making merry with the Canonical crew. It's a little known fact that Robbie Burns, author of Auld Lang Syne, was sent to New Zealand as its one and only convict.

After that, I'll be off to Palmerston North, "suicide capital". John Cleese, famous for his roles as Q in Die Another Day, has declared the town to be so "thoroughly miserable" that it can tip the scales for those iffy about offing themselves.

Rest assured, gentle reader, that my straits are not so dire. I'll be deep-sea hacking with another kiwi colleague.

When I return, I still won't have an Internet connection.

Internet

I've been without Internet in my home for six and one half days. To do my job, I have been commuting to Andrew and Mary's where I am graciously lavished with the Internet's bounty. Today, however was supposed to be different.

Telstra was scheduled to connect my line at some time between 8am and 1pm. The exact time being known only to the technician and to God.

The technician called me at around 9am saying that he had connected the line at the exchange and was just confirming that. At around twenty to twelve, he called me, confirming my building was indeed number 250 that's two-five-zero. Then he hung up.

He called me again. You see, we both need to be sure that the building I live in is indeed two hundred and fifty that's two-five-zero, the one next to the service station. We assured each other of our certainty, then he hung up. I started worrying. I had expected a certain level of confusion—Telstra have a reputation to maintain—but this seemed excessive.

My phone rang again. Apparently the technician and I are both victims of a cruel deception. "They" told him that he was supposed to connect me on the building on the other side of the road. "They" gave him the wrong details, although apparently the correct address. He sees now that the place where I should be connected to is right next to my building.

He's sending the job back to them. They will sort it out. They will probably call me tomorrow or the next day and send him out again, he says. They will explain what's going on. No, my line hasn't been connected today.

Goodbye.

Moved

I've moved to Lindfield. My muscles are sore and almost everything is unpacked.

There's no Internet at the place yet so I'll be a little bit out of touch.

Lethologica

What's that word, the one for when people unite to achieve a single goal and spend effort, time, energy, creativity, nous, emotion, money, business cunning and sweat on some grand endeavour?

The closest I've got is "industry". It's a shame the word doesn't carry a sense of wonder and verve with it.

Yet It Moves

I had meant to move this weekend just gone. I had arranged the truck, some friends to help and cleared away a space for my possessions in my new home.

Sadly, I didn't actually pack. Like Pope Urban VII, I expected the universe to move around me. I'm going to try to move again next week. Right now, all of my books, CDs, DVDs and odds-and-ends are all packed. Boxes are scattered on my floor like Biblical allusions in a Nick Cave song.

Instead of moving, I revamped my website, moved my professional blog and set up a feed that aggregates both blogs. Thanks to Huw and Mary for their help.

Not Happy

From http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2008/06/30/1214677946009.html

EXTRAORDINARY new powers will allow police to arrest and fine people for "causing annoyance" to World Youth Day participants and permit partial strip searches at hundreds of Sydney sites, beginning today.

The laws, which operate until the end of July, have the potential to make a crime of wearing a T-shirt with a message on it, undertaking a Chaser-style stunt, handing out condoms at protests, riding a skateboard or even playing music, critics say.

I guess that means my "Mary: Not really all that" t-shirt is staying in the cupboard.