Croak a computer

Mrs O attempted to turn on our aged and infirm Macintosh computer the other day, and instead of wearily booting, it coughed up some digital blood and shuffled off this mortal etc.  This is no massive surprise as it's had a good desktop innings.  Unfortunately, as JL pointed out to us before being shot by a maniac, life is what happens to you while you're busy making plans.  In accordance with this law, I had been planning to back-up the Mac for some time.  I didn't.  I must point out by way of mitigation, however, that I am a shiftless and an idle man, so it's not my fault.

Needless to say really, there's a ton(ne) of stuff inside the cadaver of the machine that I'd quite like to get back - music, photos and other bits of electronic flotsam.  In desperation I had a quick trawl of the web, and there might, just might, be a chance that the system unit has been overwhelmed by dust, which is why it's refusing to start - the digital equivalent of having shit in the carburetter, if you will.  So in the tradition of devil-may-care British idiocy I decided to take it to pieces and hoover its guts, in the hope this might give it another six months of poor quality wheezing (ahem) life.

I've completed the first part.  I dismantled it on Monday, following some thankfully very comprehensive instructions that some jolly egg had posted on-line.  I then wedged in the thinnest nozzle in the Dyson arsenal and gave it a good old suck.

Tonight comes the final part, the reassembly.  And, frankly, if it works, I'll eat my hat and coat.  Still, stranger things have happened I suppose.  I just can't think of one.

Keeping out of your own way

I'll be honest with you - I have a tendency to over think matters.  I like to amass as much data about a subject as I can and sift it for about 14 years before committing to a course of action.  Also, having a basic working knowledge of a subject allows one to fool oneself into believing one has some control over this capricious circus turn we call life.  Usual fanciful male guff.

In some regards, this completist mindset is a boon.  Knowing how to fix a bicycle has come to my rescue at the roadside many many times over the years for example.  But it quickly and unhelpfully spills over into paranoid inaction.  One vacillates until aficionado status has been attained, but by then the decision horse has bolted to Poland.

As I've reported in these pages recently, I'm "under the physio".  My knee (my good one, mind you) has been giving me gyp.  The physio gave me some exercises to perform, and the errant joint is little-by-little pulling its socks up.  But as it gets better, I've grown bored with blind faith in the physio's regime and have started reading-up about this fascinating joint.  (Yeah, I know).

And it is a fascinating subject.  I know I'm wielding the weak anthropic principle with abandon here, but indulge me for a mo.  It's so elegantly and effortlessly fit for purpose, the human knee.  It really is  a triumph.  Forget your Dyson cheese grater or your iPhone, the knee knocks them both into a cocked hat.  And you've got two knees dangling out the bottom of your underpants.  (Apologies to those of you who have less than the usual complement of legs.  No offence intended.)

But there's a problem.  As one's knowledge of the workings of the knee increases, one becomes dangerously self-conscious while using them.  This is bad.  I find myself constantly assessing the biomechanics of my gait as I mince across the office to the printer.  This over-analysis causes me to walk like Godzilla in desert boots.  Not a good look for your middling office Johnny, comme moi.

How on earth do physios cope?