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[truthofherdreams]

poetry, beauty, romance, love

also on ao3

Belle stops in front of the door to the lecture hall, trying her best to calm her laboured breaths as she presses a hand to her chest. A group of students walks toward her in the corridor, so she takes a sip of her water as to hide her discomfort, although she is certain her red cheeks are betraying her anyway.

The walk from her College to the Medical Sciences building is a short one - on purpose - but she is yet to get accustomed to the strain on her heart every time she exerts herself, even slightly. She tried a bike instead, on her very first day in Oxford, but the results were not any better. Hopefully, her body will get used to those brisk walks across the city.

Thankfully, the lecture hall is almost empty when she enters, a whole half-hour before the lecture is actually meant to start, so Belle takes her time going down the steps, all the way to the very first row.  She selects her seat slightly to the left of the room, close to the still empty lectern. Behind her, two other students talk to each other in small whispers, while a girl at the very back is busy typing away on her phone.

Belle gets her own out of her pocket, checking for her latest messages. Despite the early hour, she has one unread message from her sister - a picture of Fanny’s current art project, one that has Belle frowning at her screen as she tilts her head to the side, trying and failing to guess what the meaning of the painting is meant to be. Maybe she will ask Fanny later, or maybe she will let her sister to her deranged phallic art pieces and sculptures.

Instead, Belle opens her laptop, hoping for at least twenty minutes to work on the assignment she was given yesterday. Barely half a way in Oxford, and she is already drowning in a sea of essays, reading assignments and lab notes. Well, any other student would be drowning. Belle is doing just fine.

“Seat’s taken?”

She looks up from her laptop, blinking in surprise at the boy next to her. She belatedly notices the room has filled up by now, whispers of two turned into a cacophony of voices. And this boy, still staring at her, now with his eyebrows raised.

“Hm, sorry, no - no it’s free.”

“Cool.”

He plops into the seat next to her, his long legs stretching in front of him under the table, as he drops a laptop right next to hers. The thing seems almost broken beyond repair, with faded stickers all over the back, one broken corner, and some tape keeping the screen from escaping from the keyboard. Belle forces herself not to comment, thankfully distracted from the acidic words on the top of her tongue when students start passing around piles of printed-out syllabi for the course.

Belle grabs one, even though she’s had it downloaded onto her iPad since last night. IPad she now fetches from her bag, along with a paper notepad and her pencil case. She neatly lines up her three favourite highlighters - blush pink, lavender and soft green, before she takes a sip of water.

And notices her seat neighbour staring at her.

“Problem?” she asks him, raising an eyebrow at her.

He shakes his head for a moment, tongue against the inside of his cheek, before he thinks better of it. “Have you watched any of those videos about those Sorority girls?”

She frowns. “I fail to see your point.”

“Bet you do.”

Then he turns his focus back on the (still off) lecture screen. The way he does it, so casual - too casual, even - immediately gets on her nerves. So what if she likes her notes to be neat and organised? So what if she will spend another hour after the lecture, going back through what she’s written, just to ensure everything is written well, colour-coded, highlighted, sticky-noted? She huffs in frustration as she turns back toward the front of the room too, but not before noticing his smirk from the corner of her eye. The jerk.

Professor McGregor chooses that perfect moment to make his way to the lectern, and all other thoughts leave Belle’s mind as she focuses on the man’s lecture. For the next hour, she dutifully takes notes, nodding to herself every time she remembers one of the facts from her past readings.

The professor might not be the liveliest, with the monotonous drawl to his voice, but his insights into the field still are satisfying to Belle. She does make a mental note to check his research papers later, out of curiosity more than anything else.

When Professor McGregor finishes his speech for the day, her ever so delightful neighbour jumps right out of his seat, broken laptop under his arm. He gives her a salute, as lazy as his grin is mocking.

“See you on Thursday, Bama Rush.”

“Fucker,” she grumbles.

He’s too far up the stairs to hear her.

…

Professor McGregor, as it turns out, also happens to be her tutor. Which is how, the next week, Belle finds herself in the professor’s quarters, overlooking the gardens of St John’s College. Despite being of a decent size, the room feels stuffy, with its large mahogany bookcases on every wall, its displayed human skeleton in a corner, and its wide array of nicknacks on every possible table, desk, and shelf. Very much absent from the room, though, is Professor McGregor himself.

“Do not touch that,” Hetty hisses.

Belle looks up, just in time to see Sneed’s hand retract from a large jar with what seems to be an embryo with two heads floating inside. Bell wrinkles her nose.

“What a waste of time,” Sneed complains, moving on to his observation of a polished skull on one of the bookcases. “At the price of tuition…”

“Cry me a river, Sneed,” Hetty replies. “We all know daddy dearest paid extra for you to be here.”

Belle stifles a laugh as Sneed glares at Hetty, who replies with her most condescending smile. Even though they’ve barely interacted so far, Belle enjoys Hetty’s company - she’s smart and sharp and unafraid to speak her mind, when the occasion calls for it. They could make great friends, given time, and Belle hopes this tutoring group will give their friendship the space it needs to blossom.

Hetty winks at her, and Belle smiles.

She is about to say something, when the door to the study opens, and all three heads snap to that direction.

But the good professor still is yet to make his entrance. Instead, the boy from last week’s lecture stands in the doorframe, blinking at the darkness of the room.

“Old git still not here, huh?” he says as he enters, door closing behind him. He didn’t bother with his broken laptop this time.

Actually, he didn’t bother with anything at all, strolling through the room with his hands in his pockets until he drops himself unceremoniously next to Belle on the small settee. She glares at him. He ignores her.

“They let anyone in these days,” Sneed mumbles, before he turns back to the bookcase.

“Indeed. Remind me, how many A* did you get?” the other boy retorts. “Three? Four? Oh no, wait. That was me.”

If looks could kill, Sneed would have murdered him on the spot with the glare he throws over his shoulder. Hatty rolls her eyes.

“Yes, Dawkins. We all know how smart you are,” she says, but her tone is more exasperate than biting. Like an old argument, repeated too many times.

Has Belle already missed on that much drama, even after only a week, by spending time between her bedroom and the library? Has life gone past her so fast, that enemies were made already?

Dawkins bumps his shoulder with Belle’s conspiratorially. “You heard that, right? She calls me smart!”

He offers her a shit-eating grin, the kind that makes Belle’s stomach do a little jump. Despite her best try at stoicism, she smiles too. The grin grows bigger.

There is a twinkle in his eyes, when they drop to her lips, a flash of something Belle doesn’t quite know how to name. It’s there and then it’s gone, his eyes meeting hers again - and here’s that mischief again, the boyish stupidity that fits him like a glove.

His mouth opens, slightly, like he's about to say something, and…

The door slams open.

They all startle.

Professor McGregor enters, his steps unsteady, his hand wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle. He stops, blinking at them in confusion, before he mumbles something that both his beard and the alcohol make inaudible.

Hetty is the first one to jump to her feet, to spring to action. “Should we come back tomorrow, Professor?”

He waves her off, before he drops himself in the closest chair and takes another long sip of his wine. Sneed can barely hide his grimace of disapproval, a reminder to Belle to smooth out her own features.

The professor gives them brief and confusing instructions on readings and reports to be completed for the next session, and research to be done in pairs. He vaguely points to Hetty and Sneed first, then to Belle and Dawkins, with some misogynistic comment about making it equal, giving a chance for the ladies to learn something. Then he waves them off, and they all scramble to escape as fast as they can.

Belle runs down the stairs, only allowing herself to breathe once she is on the lawn of the front quadrangle, head down and hands on her hips. She inhales deeply, to calm her heart and will the annoyance away.

“Here.”

She turns around, facing Dawkins. His arm is stretched toward her, paper in hand. She takes it carefully, then frowns down at the scribbles that make up a name - Jack, she guesses, even though it reads as Jeck - and a phone number.

“Got that doctor’s handwriting locked in,” she comments.

“Thanks, it’s the dyspraxia.”

She blinks, and swallows back a curse to herself. Of course she had to make a fool of herself, and insult him in the process. He may be infuriating, but that doesn’t mean she has a right to be that rude.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean…” “It’s fine,” he waves it away. “Just text me when you’re free for a trip to the library.”

…

It’s funny, how quickly new experiences become habits. How the unknown turns into the familiar in the blink of an eye. How Jack makes his way into her life, one infuriating jab at a time. 

Every Monday, ten o’clock on the dot, they meet in the same study room of St John’s College’s library, to study and work together on Professor McGregor’s assignments. The study room allows them privacy, so Jack can use the text-to-speech tools on his computer, or so Belle can read out loud some passages for the both of them. She proofreads his essays when his dyslexia gets the best of him, and he always brings her favourite snacks to avoid her sugar levels crashing.

Despite what she thought, it works seamlessly.

They fight, of course. On new medical research, on which technology to use, on grammar and methodology and whether Star Wars or Star Trek is the best. They argue, and yell, and get stern reminders to be quiet from the librarian. They help each other up, fact-check everything twice, and motivate each other when the burden of first year medicine becomes too much, the pressure, the workload, the late night study sessions.

One Monday at a time, he becomes part of her life, of her universe.

“Why don’t we ever study at yours’?” she asks him one particularly chilly November morning, when the library is so cold their fingers turned blue, until Belle gave up and dragged him all the way back to her dorm bedroom.

He lies down on the floor, fluffy blanket on top of him as he hugs one of her Squishmallows to his chest. “You don’t want to come to my place, believe me.”

“Why is that?” She puts her laptop aside, cross-legged on her bed, peering down at him. “Live in the dungeons?”

He scoffs. “Worse. Subletting from some old fart who used to be a porter for St Cross College till they caught him stealing from students.”

“What is he doing now?”

“Working at Costa.”

“And how did you meet this lovely gentleman?”

Jack’s smile is wry. “Working at Costa.”

Belle snorts a laugh. Not for the first time, she is reminded of the socio-economical differences between her and Jack. How she was sent to boarding school to Cheltenham Ladies’, while he did his studies in some no-name high school in South London. How her parents pay for her tuition, but he got in on a full scholarship. How she spends the summers in Greece, or Spain, or back home in Australia, while he’s stuck here, working to make meets end. How she has a loving mother, and a fool of a father, and a crazy sister, while he’s all alone.

They never properly agreed not to talk about it - not in so many words, at least - but sometimes, like today, it hangs between us. Heavy. Obvious.

“Do you fancy some tea?” she asks, to change the conversation, to lead it back to more comfortable topics, like anatomy and lab reports and lectures. Not Jack’s misfortune in life. Not Jack’s empty bank account. Not the way her heart misses a beat when he looks at her like that, open and vulnerable and oh so eager.

Her heart is used to skipping beats.

Not like that, though.

Never like that.

…

“The WHO defines health as…”

“A state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being,” Belle recites as she walks up and down the corridor.

Hetty hums at the back of her throat, before she switches to another card. “Decline in deaths from infectious diseases in the second half of the nineteenth century was mainly due to…”

“Improvements in diet, housing, and public sanitation.”

She is wringing her hands now, the motion nowhere near as soothing as it ought to be. Her bottom lip is raw from biting down on it and picking at the skin, and her heartbeat is going way faster than ever recommended by her own doctors.

“What is NOT a task of a sociologist in medicine?”

Belle pauses. Stops. Stares at Hetty. Hetty stares back.

“Develop theory that assists in understanding social issues related to health,” comes from behind her.

Belle sighs, and turns around. “Just because you can memorise everything by heart…”

“Please, Belle. We both know your memory is far better than mine could ever be.”

She wants to tell him that is not true. She wants to remind him he got better exam results than her last year. She wants to pout and says that he’s better than her at sociology, period. She wants…

He hands her a chocolate bar, and all her worries go away.

“Jack Dawkins, you are a blessing.”

He laughs, even though his cheeks turn red “Can I get that in writing?”

She waves him away, more to dismiss his unwanted silliness than anything else, but still has a moment of panic when he indeed starts walking away from the exam hall. From the corridor. From her.

Mouth full of chocolate, she gestures vaguely at the door. Jack grins, and walks back the few steps separating them to boop her nose with his finger.

“Different room. Extra time. You knew that, Fox.”

She did know that, indeed, knows his SPP by heart - the 25% extra time he gets for every exam, and the text-to-speech machine to help him go through the papers. It doesn’t make it any less difficult, to know he will not be in the hall with the rest of them, that the sight of his mess of blond hair will not be able to sooth her nerves during the exam. He’ll be right next door, but she might as well be all the way back in Sydney, for she will feel his absence just as well.

“You got it,” he says, and it’s soft and quiet and full of emotions she refuses to question now. “I’ll see you when I’m done, alright?”

She nods, and swallows around the chocolate pieces in her mouth. “Good luck.”

“No need for luck when you’ve got talent,” he winks at her.

…

She passes with a 96.

He does so too. With a 99.

…

Belle doesn’t remember how it happened.

Well, that is a lie. Her memories may be fuzzy around the corners, but she remembers every second, every moment, every word and every touch and every tiny, single detail of that afternoon.

It starts, as it so often does, with the end. The end of exam week, the end of an academic year, the end of their first year of medicine. It starts, as it so often does in Oxford, on the banks of the river, where the grass meets the water, where boats move lazily and students gather, bottles of cheap wine and packs of snacks in hand.

It starts on the bank of the river, laughing as Hetty kisses girls after girls after girls, and makes fun of Sneed for having no game, and no girlfriend, and no summer internship. It starts with a bottle of rosé against Belle’s lips, warming her stomach and her cheeks and her brain.

It starts when it ends, when the sun is so low everything turns golden and beautiful, like a painting from an era long gone. It starts with Jack and his golden hair, and his shining eyes, and the smirk he keeps just for her, for when she’s happy and carefree and on the right side of tipsy.

It starts with her laugh.

“Jack Dawkings, everyone!” she exclaims as loud as her lungs will let her, “Top of the class!”

People cheer and whoop and toast, any reason good enough for yet another drink. Belle’s arm is flung around his shoulders, her body pressed into him, and he chuckles against the mess of her hair.

“How much did you drink already?”

“Enough,” she replies, smug and proud and laughing.

“Yeah, right,” he says, and takes the bottle from her.

She pouts, but she doesn’t fight back, not even when he hands the bottle to some random guy just passing by. She’s tipsy but not drunk, and she’s fine with it - especially when Jack’s side is pressed against her chest, against her breasts, when his arm is wrapped around her waist and he holds her to him, strong and solid and present.

“Top of the class,” she whispers to him, softer this time.

He looks down at her, and he’s soft too. Bright eyes, even brighter smile. “And yet, you’re my number one.”

She kisses him. Or maybe he kisses her. Not that it matters, when his lips are on hers, when his fingers are in her hand and on her neck, when he grabs her and pulls her close, close, closer until she forgets where he stops and where she begins, until it’s only them, them, them.

When he breaks the kiss, it’s to rub his nose alongside the ridge of hers. Delicate. Loving. Adoring. She kisses him again, just because she can.

Hetty yells at them to get a room.

Belle happily obliges.

[lgcbk]

⸻ CHANGES.

( 12.23 ) He's greeted by the dim glow of a hall light as he enters the apartment.

He leaves his sneakers by the door. Doesn't bother to neatly place them next to his father's Oxfords. Not that it would matter if he did, anyway. His parents aren't home. Wouldn't be for at least a few more days.

The move is next week. You'll have to get your things.

The message read. The lack of explanation wasn't unusual. He doesn't bother to call. To clarify. What good would come of even asking? He knows now that he and his parents live completely separate lives. He likes to think he's known that for a while. Their contractual familial agreement had run its term long before he'd left home. He's stopped expecting there to be some soft of miraculous change in his absence. He's come to terms with it despite the thoughts that still cross his mind every now and again. If I just keep hoping, wishing, praying - it will be different. It has to be different.

Byeongkwan wanders around his childhood home first, stepping over haphazardly packed boxes and moving bags waiting for whatever service company would be arriving by the end of the week. The fridge is empty save for a few condiments and partially emptied takeout containers. The living room is devoid of any personal touches, plaques and certificates tucked away in safe foam wrapping. Their bedroom is already packed, closets laid bare leaving a few empty hangers and discarded undershirts in the far corner. His mother's trinkets swiped from the dresser.

He wonders where his parents are spending the the holiday. A work function? Some stuffy hotel toiling away at their laptops like last year? Their new place? For once he isn't angry. Doesn't long for some semblance of 'family togetherness' during the season that touted it as a time to be cherished.

His room is barely touched, though. Just as he'd left it. A desk littered with old textbooks, crumpled sheets of paper, and a soccer trophy that had fallen from its shelf, requiring a bit of superglue to repair it. The fan he'd kept in the corner of the room, coated with a layer of dust. His old keyboard with its tricky keys from overuse - and that one Red Bull incident.

His vinyl wall is still intact, its rows of cover art up on display like his own personal mural. Byeongkwan rolls in his empty suitcase reserved for the more fragile items, and begins to toss the rest into some leftover garbage bags. Jeans, uniforms, old shoes, yearbooks graffitied with designs and vulgar notes from his friends back in high school. He moves on to his other keepsakes. Scholarly certificates, awards from piano competitions, class rank notes. He wasn't a bad kid, he thinks.

It takes him longer than he'd expected to rummage through his old things - afternoon became night, night became a new day without sight of his parents. He'd managed to discard most of his belongings in between listening sessions on his old vintage record player and a few meal breaks. Soon, all that remained was a loosely wrapped box under his desk, unaddressed. He drops into a crosslegged seat and slides it over, shifting around some tissue paper to reveal a new soccer jersey, some loose leaf tea, and random convenience store snacks. A birthday gift for his grandfather. "From the family." Forgotten and tossed in with the rest of his things. He huffs in frustration - an understatement considering how his blood began to boil at the thought of yet another missed occasion. Another let down.

It has to be different.

And he could make it different. He could makes things better. Make them right.

He tucks the box under his arm, gathers up his bags and suitcase, and makes his way out of the apartment. Into the cold morning. He doesn't give the place a second glance. Doesn't wait for another wave of melancholy nostalgia.

This was a goodbye.

A good riddance.

A new start.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

This day in history

Next Saturday (May 20), I’ll be at the GAITHERSBURG Book Festival with my novel Red Team Blues; then on May 22, I’m keynoting Public Knowledge’s Emerging Tech conference in DC.

On May 23, I’ll be in TORONTO for a book launch that’s part of WEPFest, a benefit for the West End Phoenix, onstage with Dave Bidini (The Rheostatics), Ron Diebert (Citizen Lab) and the whistleblower Dr Nancy Olivieri.

#20yrsago Does media concentration matter if we have the Internet? https://web.archive.org/web/20030503062143/https://cyberlaw.stanford.edu/lessig/blog/archives/2003_05.shtml

#15yrsago Canada’s DMCA Minister weasels and fumbles when asked about his copyright plans https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5-wvCSy_y4

#15yrsago HOWTO keep your laptop’s data out of customs’ hands https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2008/may/15/computing.security

#10yrsago Abusive restaurateurs stage spectacular social media meltdown https://www.buzzfeed.com/ryanhatesthis/this-is-the-most-epic-brand-meltdown-on-facebook-ever

#10yrsago Pirate Bay co-founder Peter Sunde is a candidate for Pirate Party MEP in Finland https://torrentfreak.com/pirate-bay-cofounder-to-run-for-european-parliament-130514/

#10yrsago Canadian anti-piracy bounty hunters ripped off photos for their website https://www.vice.com/en/article/ppqn38/canadian-copyright-canipre-images-without-permission

#10yrsago Prince Charles’s housing charity gets into bed with torturing Bahraini dictatorship https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2013/may/14/prince-charles-criticised-bahrain-housing-deal

#10yrsago Rich New Yorkers hire disabled “guides” to Disney World in order to skip lines https://nypost.com/2013/05/14/rich-manhattan-moms-hire-handicapped-tour-guides-so-kids-can-cut-lines-at-disney-world/

#10yrsago Odd Duck: great picture book about eccentricity and ducks https://memex.craphound.com/2013/05/15/odd-duck-great-picture-book-about-eccentricity-and-ducks/

#5yrsago John Scalzi wrote a science fiction story about the DMCA to help EFF’s Right to Repair campaign https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/05/eff-presents-john-scalzi-science-fiction-story-about-our-right-repair-petition

#5yrsago A dozen googlers quit over Google’s military drone contract https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2018/05/google-employees-resign-in-protest-of-googlepentagon-drone-program/

#5yrsago Kansas finally bans cops from having sex with detainees, people undergoing questioning, witnesses, and people they pull over during traffic stops https://www.kansas.com/news/politics-government/article210902319.html

#5yrsago EFF has comprehensively killed the bullshit podcasting patent https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/05/eff-wins-final-victory-over-podcasting-patent

#5yrsago Judge to Facebook: stop deliberately misinterpreting my privacy rulings https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-05-14/facebook-faulted-by-judge-for-troubling-theme-in-privacy-case

#5yrsago How the “global super-rich” have honeycombed London’s posh neighbourhoods with sub-basements, sub-sub-basements, and sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-basements https://www.theguardian.com/money/2018/may/07/pool-basement-wealth-super-rich-digging-down-london

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Toronto, DC, Gaithersburg, Oxford, Hay, Manchester, Nottingham, London, and Berlin!

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[sprolliescantjump]

12. You

He’s driving them out to rural Oxford county for their newest investigation, the discovery of a body on a windfarm not being quite the industrial accident it first appeared. For the first time since her surgery, Dr Kimishima is accompanying him to the crime scene, if only to avoid the disaster that’s been investigations over Zoom call. The last attempt almost ended in IT having to repair her laptop and his cell phone.

Still. It was nice to have her company on the drive and nicer to see her increasingly getting back on her feet, even if he did expect her to crash out within two minutes of beginning the drive home.

The radio is playing some classic rock station that he stumbled upon, then never bothered to change back. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the doctor tapping her finger on the armrest to the beat.

"So…this Ben Frank then?” she asks, when the song switches to a commercial.  “What’s so special about him that the guitar prompted such an…outburst?”

“He’s probably one of the greatest guitar players that ever lived.”

The doctor gives an unconvinced hmm. “Is that all?”

He hesitates. Somehow, he was still surprised when she read him like a book. “Growing up, we weren’t supposed to listen to rock music. My father was a Baptist preacher and thought we should only listen to hymns at home. He told his congregation that listening to any music that wasn’t spiritual was just inviting the devil into their lives. He told them to burn everything - we even had a congregational bonfire. He brought along everything owned-”

“Let me guess. Everything except his collection of Ben Frank records?”

“You got it in one.”

“What a hypocrite.”

“Believe me, that was the least of his problems. He pretty much checked out after my mother died.  But sometimes I’d get up in the middle of the night and find him in the living room drinking beer, listening to his Ben Frank records. And…he’d let me sit with him, and listen, and talk. Only about the music, never about anything real. That was the only thing that connected us.”

Her eyes are focused on him, looking for…something he was never quite sure of. Eventually, she responds, her voice unexpectedly soft.  “I’m glad you had that.”

He gives a small nod of thanks. “He sank further and further into the bottle, and those talks stopped somewhere along the way. But when I was leaving for college, he was adamant that I took his record collection. It was the last thing he gave me.”

“He passed?”

“End of freshman year.”

“Do you still have them, the records?”

“Nah, I had to sell them during sophomore year to make rent,” he laments. “Always thought I’d collect them again after graduation, but I moved around too much for…work. I just never looked for them again.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

 He shrugs. “It is what it is. Besides…I can listen to the entire collection through my phone these days.”

“But it’s not the same?”

“No. But it’s good enough.”

She nods, then returns to watching the Maine countryside go by. They make insignificant chit-chat for some of the journey, switching to theorising the case and back again. At the crime scene they find a packet of sleeping pills hidden in a canteen cupboard. And, as predicted, she’s asleep in the car before they hit the highway.

It’s more than a month later when he returns to his desk one afternoon to find a Ben Frank vinyl record, the cardboard jacket faded and the corners dogeared, and a handwritten post-it note.

Saw this while out for lunch. Thought you’d appreciate it. N.

[repairmyphonetodayy]

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[lhs3020b]

Contrary to what you may have thought, I’m not dead.

I’ve noticed that my posting has dropped almost off the face of the planet; unfortunately I’m basically running at capacity for stress at the moment, and productivity has been a major casualty.

Work is ... well, I suppose at least I still have a job, so there is that. But all the institutional chaos within my workplace has only got worse. Most of the crazy is coming down from management - if they could just stop, just hit the pause button, actually the place would be fine. But nope, apparently this year is the year for random changes to policy and process, bizarre new HR practises and an ever-increasing upsurge in random micromanagement. Honestly, it’s exhausting and I’m having a lot of mornings when I just do not want to open the work laptop.

No sooner did I get better from the (likely, if unproven) case of The Thing, then within a fortnight, I managed to come down with an absolute stinker of a cold. This one, I think, is just a normal cold - but it’s been dragging on for weeks and generally being an exhausting, depressing misery. It’s also been forcing me to stay in the house as much as possible, making a mess of my sleep and generally draining all my energy and initiative.

On top of that I’m also stressing myself into a proper mess over household stuff. Lately it feels like it’s just been one crisis after another at this building. We recently had a neighbour vanish under weird circumstances. (This was the flat below me, where the police had to break in - as far as I can tell, it’s still vacant down there. No-one seems to know what’s happened to him.) Last week we had a near-miss on a house fire (luckily it was caught before it escalated, but it was still a serious “feel your stomach drop” moment). Today, I’m suddenly having plumbing problems again - this has been a consistent theme over the past three years - the landlord is a unique storm of incompetence, illiteracy and disorganisation, so getting any repairs done is always a real struggle here.

I know that I need to move house.

Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done. First of all, there’s the problem of finding somewhere. This city is absurdly expensive, in fact it turns out it’s now one of the most expensive in the country. (It’s still beaten by the black holes that are London, Oxford, Cambridge and the other property-market horror stories out there, but it’s in pricey company!) There’s basically nowhere in this city that I can now afford (my employer being a notorious low payer doesn’t help here either).

As for nearby places, well, that’s where we start to get into the Covid problem. The UK is presumably heading for a second lockdown (Wales is there already, and so are a lot of bits of the North of England), but the government are currently doing their usual thing of blustering and threatening, rather than acting, so of course no-one has any idea what’s going on or when anything will happen. And knowing my luck, of course it will get decreed the day before the removals van is due, won’t it? Because it just will, won’t it? There’s no other day it could possibly happen on, etc. etc.

Then we get to removals, which will be complex here between my lack of a car (how could I possibly afford one?), the weird stairs in this building, and the lack of parking outside.

Yeaaaahhhh.

Fair to say I’m a mass of stress at the moment. So, that’s where I am right now, and this is where I will probably stay for the foreseeable future.

[hi-tec-solutions]

Apple Laptop Repair at HiTec Solutions in Oxford

Introduction:

In the ever-evolving world of technology, Apple laptops have become an integral part of our lives. However, like any electronic device, these laptops are also prone to occasional malfunctions and hardware issues. When faced with such challenges, it is essential to find a reliable repair service that can efficiently diagnose and fix the problem. In Oxford, HiTec Solutions stands out as a trusted destination for Apple laptop repair. Let's delve deeper into the services they offer and why they are the go-to solution for all your Apple laptop repair needs.

Expert Technicians:

At HiTec Solutions, you can expect your Apple laptop to be handled by a team of highly skilled and certified technicians. These professionals possess extensive knowledge and experience in repairing various models of Apple laptops. Whether you own a MacBook Air, MacBook Pro, or any other Apple laptop, rest assured that HiTec Solutions has the expertise to diagnose and resolve any hardware or software issue.

Comprehensive Repair Services:

HiTec Solutions offers a wide range of repair services to cater to the diverse needs of Apple laptop users. From fixing common problems like broken screens, malfunctioning keyboards, or faulty batteries to advanced repairs involving logic board or hard drive replacements, they have the necessary tools and expertise to get your laptop up and running again. Additionally, they provide software troubleshooting, data recovery, and virus removal services, ensuring that your laptop functions seamlessly.

Quality Parts and Warranty:

When it comes to repairing Apple laptops, HiTec Solutions understands the importance of using genuine parts to maintain the integrity and performance of the device. They source high-quality components directly from Apple or authorized distributors, ensuring that your laptop receives the best possible treatment. Moreover, HiTec Solutions provides a warranty on all their repairs, giving customers peace of mind knowing that their laptops are in safe hands.

Efficient Turnaround Time:

One of the key advantages of choosing HiTec Solutions for your Apple laptop repair is their commitment to providing prompt and efficient service. They understand the inconvenience caused by a malfunctioning laptop and strive to minimize the downtime for their customers. With their streamlined repair process, they aim to diagnose and repair the issue as quickly as possible, allowing you to get back to your work or personal tasks without delay.

Convenience and Accessibility:

Located in Oxford, HiTec Solutions offers convenient accessibility for both residents and businesses in the area. Their centrally located repair center is easily accessible by public transport or private vehicles. Additionally, they provide flexible service options, including on-site repairs or pickup and delivery services, making it convenient for customers who are unable to visit their repair center in person.

Conclusion:

When faced with a faulty Apple laptop, it is crucial to entrust its repair to a reliable and experienced service provider. HiTec Solutions in Oxford stands out as a go-to destination for Apple laptop repair, offering expert technicians, comprehensive repair services, genuine parts, efficient turnaround time, and convenient accessibility. With their commitment to customer satisfaction and quality repairs, HiTec Solutions is the trusted choice for all your Apple laptop repair needs in Oxford.

📞 Contact: Hi-Tec Solution

📍 Address: 99A St Aldate's, Oxford OX1 1BT, United Kingdom

📧 Email: info@htsolution.co.uk

☎️ Phone: 01865 594774

💻 Website: https://www.htsolution.co.uk

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Laptop Repair Oxford; PC Repair Oxford; Repair My Phone Today specialize in repairing all brands of laptops and computers at an affordable price.

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