Before I begin, let me describe the feelings of true fear.
|Loose bowels. (I kid you not, that's what Goggle found)|
The bowels loosen, and a feeling akin to having ice cold napalm directly injected into the colon permeates the abdomen.
The skin physically creeps, causing the hairs to rise vertically, and an icy-cold miasma seems to exude from every pore, leaving every square centimetre to feel slimy and frigid, not unlike having a huge cryogenic slug crawling over the surface, leaving tendrils of sub-zero slime to accumulate and engulf the body.
The throat tightens, making any intelligible speech impossible, only allowing strangled squeaks and grunts to escape.
The vision blurs as the focusing muscles slacken then tighten; outwith conscious control.
The heart momentarily ceases its regular beat, causing a huge palpitation and an incredible feeling of uncontrolled loss and despair.
|Gone Man, just, like gone.|
The knees lose their strength, causing a sagging of posture and a slumping against any available surface.
In my own case, all of the above is initiated at the moment of realisation, plus I also detect a faint ringing in the ears, a palsy effects my hands, my shirt collar grows tighter and I have to clamp my buttocks together to avoid an unfortunate accident, such as not happened to me for nigh on 58 ½ years.
But on second thoughts, these latter symptoms may not be unique to me.
I heard a veteran of an incident in the Oman (Battle of Mirbat) in 72, say that as the mortars of the rebels exploded around their basha, a comment was made about arseholes twitching in unison. (I strongly believe that this was meant as "twitching at the same time" as the trade union Unison didn't come into being until1993. But twitching in synchronicity doesn't have the same ring to it)
However, I digress.
The cause of all this FEAR?
Two months ago, my Beloved inveigled me into
|An innocent wee laptop|
I had to set up a wireless network to allow her to print to our printers attached to my main computer, and of course this allowed her to access email as well.
I'm not completely dumb, and I therefore set up a separate email account for her, so our emails would irretrievably remain my emails.
I had however forgotten one little fact.
Access to the wireless network also allowed access to the internetthingy.
|NOT an innocent wee laptop; An evil f*cking instrument of death|
I honestly wouldn't have believed it possible, that my Beloved, with her rather limited internetthingy skills, would have started LOOKING AROUND THE WEB.
I became aware of this, and also aware of all of the symptoms described at the start, when she asked me the question which filled me with the dread of centuries.
She said: "Dear?" (Don't all male partners learn very quickly to link this questioning adjective with a feeling of guilt, avoidance and a terrible sinking feeling? I do, but it was as nothing to what happened next)
She said "Dear?", "Who is Richard [of RBB]?"
But worse was to come.
"And" (There's always a bloody AND)
|Who she? Where? What larder?|
"And" she said "Who or what is Hestia's Larder?"
"AND" (This said with a hint more emphasis)
"AND, WHAT IS A BLOG???"
|A bloody log...a BLOG|
I did what any true red-blooded male would do in this case, (although I must admit I didn't really feel like a red-blooded male at this point. More like a spineless, kneeless slug with liquid nitrogen running through its slimy despicable body)
And ignored the parts I didn't even want to think about.
"A blog my Dear?"
"A blog is like a specialised area on the web, where aged contributors contribute bon mots, essays, epigrams and exquisite poetry, and where open and good natured criticism is welcomed by all"
"It's really like a great big electronic schoolroom" (This last added, because I couldn't see any glimmerings of understanding in her lovely (but quick to glare) brown eyes, and I knew she didn’t even like me discussing my days escapades, escapes and disasters at my place of employ, Nuova Lazio High School)
|A Twisted Scot. "See you Jimmy, you calling me a bastard? I'll do you."|
"Oh" she said, "I wondered, because I found a reference to [my real surname] and to some awful person called twistedscottishbastard writing to Richard[of RBB] and Hestia's Larder when I searched using Google for information on your family tree."
(May the people who started those awful series of adverts offering help in researching family trees be struck down with a moraine. (I know it should be a murrain, but a moraine is bigger and much, much heavier)
They're Aussie adverts, so they're all bloody convicts anyway. What else do they need to know?
Convicted and transported for stealing a sheep.
Convicted and transported for stealing a loaf.
Convicted and transported for having unlawful carnal knowledge of a goat.
Convicted and transported for wasting whisky (An absolutely dreadful crime, unique to Scotland. Rare though, most got hung on the spot)
They're all the bloody same.
|Next Aussie PM and Accomplice, AKA Minister for the Treasury|
"Oh really my Dear?" I managed to mutter nonchalantly, "There was someone at school who used to blog, so he might have mentioned my name sometime"
"I don't know what those other things are" "They do sound a bit dodgy"
"Do you want me to try and find out?"
She turned back to the keyboard on her laptop, dismissing the conversation.
"Oh don't bother; it all sounds so boring anyway"
I slinked away around the corner, finding it necessary to sink into the first available chair.
Dear God! (who doesn't probably exist anyway) that had been far too close for comfort.
If she had actually gone onto "How The Hell Does This Work" and actually read the bloody thing, My Arse (in the vernacular of the crude soldiery) Would Have Been Grass.
You are f*cked. (Another aphorism from the military)
I think I've escaped, but I never, ever wish to go through that life-numbing shock again.
The wireless network unaccountably failed that very evening, and even with my most strenuous efforts, it has never worked again.