Yesterday’s evil mood passed, as it always does. I wish I could simply accept that: but how can I trust today’s good cheer, when my life is in no better shape than it was yesterday?

Well, anyway. I am reminded of my ignorance with respect to gall and its bladders. Will Dad now be less choleric, or more?

Machine translation is not quite here yet. I started to read “BLOG ALWAYS, YOU INTEREST Me” (linked from this article on Googlebombing) but quickly decided to try my luck with the French instead. I’ve written my own translation.

Well, I’d hate to see the Googlebombing fad go by without getting in on it, so here goes: Scientology, Scientology, Scientology, Scientology, Scientology. (A couple of these were down when I last looked.)

Sunday Dad called to ask my advice as an experienced user of mobile telephones. He and his wife are about to move to another city, and wondered whether they ought to bother getting landline service at all.

Monday I remembered something on which we had not touched, and called him back. He thanked me again for my advice and reported that they had decided on Handspring Treo – plus minimal landline service, just in case, and to avoid having to search the house for the mobiles!

Monday Dad was out sick, but said nothing specific about his symptoms. Tuesnight, just now, his wife let me know that his gall-bladder appears to be inflamed and tomorrow he’ll be deprived of it.

Wednesday update: The surgery went well; Dad may even be home tomorrow.

Did I really write “satiral” yesterday? Funny. Wonder why that isn’t a proper word, anyway.

Three months out of work. Occasional nibbles from agencies but no follow-up. (And all because for the last dozen years I used WordPerfect rather than bloody Redmondware. To think that, last time around, the temp agencies were fighting over me because they knew I can tackle an app I’ve never seen before and, by the end of the day, know it better than most users ever will.)

Invisible walls closing in. Sleep erratic. Familiar symptoms of serotonin deficiency hard to distinguish from familiar symptoms of objective disappointment. Thoughts dwell on friends who died of it: Dan Alderson (1941-89), who allowed diabetes to do him in slowly; and Sasha Chislenko (1959-2000), who took a speedier way. Remind self that at least two people would miss me.

Will try not to bore you further. About that, at least.

Imagine my lack of utter shock at receiving no response to my inquiry to Washington concerning security at the Fed Bldg.