I wrote a specification document about a month ago for a friend who wanted to do some analysis of some regulations in a country a long way away. I sent it to him, went off on holiday, and never heard anything back.
Well, I thought, that was a little bit disappointing, but perhaps he was too busy or too polite to say what a pile of steaming ordure I’d sent him.
Then this evening he emailed me to ask me if I was going to write up the document we’d spoken about.
I checked my outbox. Unsent. I checked my drafts. The first quarter of a long and carefully written email was there, and the rest was gone, gone forever.
Enraged, I began to type again, trying to rediscover that which I’d once been so certain of.
This was a somewhat frustrating end to the evening. I’d got home pretty much on time, put La Serpiente to bed (and got her to sleep before 8:30) leaving time to watch some Stewart Lee DVDs and catch up on some bits of administration I needed to do for work, neither of which I could manage if I had a child screaming at me past nine. I’m still sore from Sunday’s run, but I think cutting coffee out seems to have had beneficial effects – I seem to now be sleeping a little better, and after the first week of cold turkey I’m no longer zombified in the mornings.
However, I’m antsy from not getting enough exercise, and with the haze still settled over Singapore it’s very difficult to get myself out for a run – the thought of gagging and coughing is rather off putting. So instead I stay inside and type upon my computer.
And then find that the typing I’d done a month ago was all in vain.
My wife tried distracting me by tipping a glass of water all over the table where my expensive (and uninsured) laptop sat. This did not help to alleviate my stress. I managed to not swear. I wonder why I haven’t purchased home insurance. Am I just some sort of devil-may-care imbecile?
I carried on typing. I bashed together a thousand words explaining how you’d analyse the market in a far off country, emailed it, then sat around sulking for a while when really I’d be better off meditating or doing press-ups. Or possibly doing both. Or at least meditating on the idea of doing press-ups.
Onward. Fail harder, fail better, fail more often.