I still don’t have my computer back. The latest word is that it would cost north of two hundred pounds in labour to repair the keys. Solution two, as I had rather thought it might be, is to attach the machine to a keyboard and a mouse, at a total cost of about forty quid. Meanwhile, the Law of Sod being what it is, I managed to mislay the pink pen-drive which contains most of what I’ve done all term. Last used in a class at three o’clock on Friday. Disappeared, I don’t know how. I’ve looked in every conceivable pocket, in the seminar room in question, and turned my bag inside out. This leaves me with internet access on a small computer on which I can otherwise do nothing (Mr Gates having declared its window package illegal, a long, boring and tiresome saga) and an old machine I can’t access the internet on which offers, otherwise, the state of my life in 2006 and on which I can’t open pictures because pictures have got so much bigger than they were when said machine left the factory. The reason why nothing was done about my laptop proves to be quite exciting, and an insight into what they teach them in Business School these days. Someone in a suit has come up with a special wheeze, that to be a client of this computer company (which we have used since it started up), one will have to pay £300 a year. Not to be set against call-out, you understand, but merely that they will be graciously pleased to have heard of you. As Godfather pointed out, if they’re running an intranet for you with 25 machines and the understanding is that you can expect someone to turn up in a couple of hours if things go wrong, it might be sensible. For us, it’s stunning and unmitigated cheek, as the Professor pointed out to the suit in question. As a principle it works if you’re the only game in town, can persuade people you’re miles better than anyone else, or if you and the oppo form a cartel. I do hope it doesn’t catch on, and the vet starts charging you a couple of hundred a year just to have your beasties on their books.