Yesterday, admittedly whilst in a state of some intoxication, I somehow managed to delete all the photos I took on a recent visit to the low countries. Over a hundred images lost, about ten of them really quite good ones. Distraught, I ask my wife, who is more computer savvy than myself, to see if she can recover them. She tries valiantly for nearly an hour, but finally, exasperated with my moping and sighing, the snaps at me:
"You're surly, peevish and self-centred and I don't know why I even bother trying to help you. All you've done is lose some photos and you're acting like your baby died"
I stump off for a walk round the park, often helpful in enabling me to organise my thoughts coherently. Oddly, I find myself thinking things like: Wait! Maybe they fell behind the CD cabinet. That's where I found the last thing I'd been searching for, after all. So it is a bit like grief then, right down to the denial.
Moral: don't empty your recycle bin while drunk: you could live to regret it.
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