Digital dramatics
I am no longer on speaking terms with my television (and yes, you too, devilspawn VCR!), as it has done me a great injustice by reducing me into a whimpering, helpless wreck jabbing despondently and ineffectually at the remote control, while tearfully wondering whether Video In and Video Out are the same things, and why they would be so evil as to make the ports exactly the same colours. I have been sent gibbering over the phone into the phantom arms of my lovely man in shining armour, desperately pleading englightenment, grace, and most importantly, a VCR manual. It is an action that unfortunately evokes quaint and despicable images of a twittering, sighing Victorian flower, her ample bosom heaving dramatically, her handkerchief fluttering oh-so-delicately in her liquid hands, her lashed eyelids heavy with the beginnings of a womanly faint. Nevertheless, despite my palpitations, my television and VCR remain stoically, implacably unresponsive.
Am I not supposed to be an inherent member of the Digirati - the digitally elite? In a world increasingly dependent on one being able to rewire, program, configure and engineer, is it possible that the generation's own children are falling behind in the dust of advancement? Is technology advancing too quickly for the digitally-Victorian masses?
Or maybe I should just find myself a manual and read it.