Glad that's sorted

So at some moment in the murky lands of Grit time – a zone that permits no calendar on earth - I come round to find Dig has legged it to the Philippines and the computer system crashed.

It has happened before.

That single item of computer equipment, essential for all internet nirvana? The one in the cupboard? Little happy fella that blinks cute green light uncomplainingly 24/7 for six months? Yup. That one. Breaks down thirty seconds after Dig leaves the building for Indonesia. For two weeks. Sort it, Grit, sort it. Me in the cupboard with the computer is like a surgeon in your liver with a power saw. You don't want to know what happens next.

Which is why we always execute Plan B.

Plan B for all internet and computer connection failure is called P-h-o-n-e. Which would be fine if Dig's phone worked. But it doesn't. And don't suggest using another phone. Because he doesn't know my number. It's stored on his phone. All of which he emails to tell me. Except our email doesn't work. So I phone him to tell him that.

But now it's sorted. And that circumstance of feeling ill, overwrought, overwhelmed, alone, realising I am probably doomed, awaiting execution? The moment I realise I don't know which organisation Dig has travelled to Philippines with, what hotel he's staying at, who he's with, why he's there, what date is set for his return? That sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach is one I get accustomed to, married to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

So I am glad he is back, my wobblehead did not dropoff, the Internet is up and running. We survived. Another day, eh? Is that the time already?