A new year. Same old me. Organised in a hopelessly disorganised kind of
way. In fact last week I sent a text apologising for my chronic lack of
organisation. Predictive text changed it to an apology for a chronic
lack of orgasms. Fortunately I managed to catch this before giving the domestic goddess cooking cakes in my kitchen a heart attack. But here's the thing. Predictive text is normally quite good at predicting how a sentence will end. It is like the close friend or partner so close to, you finish each other's sentences. I presume it does this by using some algorithm of how people most likely speak. So who sends that in a text? Seriously? And why would someone need to take personal responsibility for such things? Doesn't it take two to tango. Anyway, this is about organisation not sexual function which I have not and almost certainly never will blog about unless Blogger decides to weirdly finish my sentences for me. So I get this invite to a New Year's Eve party at a unit at South Bank. Intimate gathering. Unit with an awesome vista for taking in the fireworks. As we will be at Les Mis first, I drop off my tripod. I go armed with lenses. I set up early. Then at midnight, flat battery. No problem, I have two spares in my handbag and - they are both flat. Poo, bum wee. So mobile phone pics for day one of the year. I would resolve to be more organised this year but I don't think you can resolve to change who you are. On the other hand I was remarkably calm about the situation which is very unlike me so perhaps a leopard cane change its spots.
A new year. Same old me. Organised in a hopelessly disorganised kind of
way. In fact last week I sent a text apologising for my chronic lack of
organisation. Predictive text changed it to an apology for a chronic
lack of orgasms. Fortunately I managed to catch this before giving the domestic goddess cooking cakes in my kitchen a heart attack. But here's the thing. Predictive text is normally quite good at predicting how a sentence will end. It is like the close friend or partner so close to, you finish each other's sentences. I presume it does this by using some algorithm of how people most likely speak. So who sends that in a text? Seriously? And why would someone need to take personal responsibility for such things? Doesn't it take two to tango. Anyway, this is about organisation not sexual function which I have not and almost certainly never will blog about unless Blogger decides to weirdly finish my sentences for me. So I get this invite to a New Year's Eve party at a unit at South Bank. Intimate gathering. Unit with an awesome vista for taking in the fireworks. As we will be at Les Mis first, I drop off my tripod. I go armed with lenses. I set up early. Then at midnight, flat battery. No problem, I have two spares in my handbag and - they are both flat. Poo, bum wee. So mobile phone pics for day one of the year. I would resolve to be more organised this year but I don't think you can resolve to change who you are. On the other hand I was remarkably calm about the situation which is very unlike me so perhaps a leopard cane change its spots. 
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