I’ve spent the last two weeks sitting in the McDonald’s car-park in Stanthorpe as I try to put together my end-of-semester essays. It has been hot, and it has been the school holidays; the screaming hordes of pookies wailing for processed fat have not made me like the human race any more than I usually do. I will at some later point stage a photo of my brumby-tray office. It was a great fortnight. If I don’t have skin-cancer and contact high cholesterol from breathing the fat-fumes, I’ll be amazed. All my lovely friends offered me internet access, but I like these people, and a grumpy quollgirl knocking on their door at 5 am would probably not have helped any of my friendships.
I have satellite internet at home, when my satellite is not compromised by stormy weather. It’s one thing to remember to unplug your computer, quite another to hop on the roof and remove a forty kilo satellite every time it looks like storming. The course of my relationship with technology never did run smooth (even before we got a Liberal government that would like us to re-learn Morse code.)
I remember the night my sister was born. Grandma taped me talking the usual four-year old stream of consciousness and then played it back to me. I was a bright enough four year old, and I didn’t really believe in magic whole-heartedly anymore, but a tape recording of my own voice was something inexplicable, and I thought for a moment I might need to re-consider my stance on voodoo.
The internet still makes me feel like this. I am obviously not a digital native.