July 26th, 2003



I was skiing happily along the edge of conciousness as I usually do in the mornings, circa 11:30am, when four high pitches beeps from my mobile phone on the windowsill stabbed me back to semi-conciousness painfully. Two new SMS messages. Hmm. My eyes didn't open. I lay there and tried to work out, by process of elimination, who it could be, and what they might want.

I swear to you, this next bit is true. I was only semi-awake, remember.

The usual suspects marched through my mind. Straight through, it seems, out the other side, out my ear, across the bed and then buggered off down the pub. No, I decided that the two SMS messages I'd just been sent had to be from a German girl named Olga.

Now, I've never met this girl, Olga. But I knew what she wanted, oh yes. I knew alright. Somehow, Olga had caught a friend of mine and I having a conversation on IRC in the wee hours of the morning, and she wanted to abuse me for some reason for looking at a picture that was linked to me. Of some person or other. I'm not sure how she obtained my mobile phone number, or, for that matter, managed to spy on our conversation when I knew everyone who was in the channel at the time (my brain DID point these out to me at the time, bless it, but the other side of my brain seemed to be winning at that point). But still, the message was from her. "The nerve of Olga!" I thought. I would have to remember to lay the verbal smack-down on her next time I talked to her or saw her online. I snuggled back in to my bed and relaxed, beginning to draft replies to her in my head.

That's when it suddenly dawned on me that I didn't know anybody named Olga. The messages weren't from her. And that my brain had become deadly proficiant at the art of procrastination. This shocked me enough to cause me to open my eyes, and gave me the energy I needed to roll over and reach for my phone. The messages were from a mate of mine, saying that if I was still up for the video night we were having tonight, be ready by 7pm, and bring beer. I messaged him back that I'd need to pick some up on the way; minutes later he responded saying that was fine, as he needed to as well.

So there you have it. I suppose out of everyone, I'm supposed to understand myself the most. But I'll be fucked if I know WHERE the hell Olga came from. I'll thank you to stay out of my head, Olga, in future.

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