Stroke by stroke, day by day, we upload our souls into our computers. Their memories know more about us than our mothers forgot.
The vessel into which I pour my life is a Toshiba which practises the Microsoft faith. My dear Toshiba has been unwell, and I worry that when it goes to the Pearly Gates, as all computers must, St Peter will deny it entrance because we didn't upgrade to Windows 8.
Or worse, we'll discover on Judgement Day that we backed the wrong horse, and heaven's operating system is Apple. That would define turning pear-shaped. But what ought the decent citizen do with a dying computer? It's a moral dilemma.
Our computer lies doggo barely flickering when you boot it, but we know treatment could prolong its life, and let it hobble on for a few more months painfully delivering our emails like some aged postie on a mobility scooter.
Personally, I think it best to respect the dignity of the ageing computer and pull the plug. To bury it tenderly beside the cat, perhaps in that flash new iCoffin which you have to dig up and re-inter each time there's a casket upgrade. Is it possible Steve Jobs ordered one of these?As computers get old and frail they become more prone to viruses.
I urge you to check whether your security package is wised up on today's worst infections:The Airline virus - fine, you reached Dunedin, but your data was sent to Brisbane.
The Winston Peters worm - your files vanish for a few years, then mysteriously reappear in a new directory.
Hekia malware - while the program keeps crashing, the Help Page has insisted for months that System Restore will fix it soon.
Ewen Macdonald spider - you suspect it runs round trashing your files but can't really prove it.
Right to Life bug - won't let you shut down.
John Key measles - harmless, actually. Sits there calmly, and doesn't interfere.
David Bain flu - bobs up on your C Drive on a slow news week.
Richard Prosser bot - deletes foreign software, particularly if coded in Wogistan.
My ailing Toshiba had its defences down when the Telecom Yahoo Xtra virus struck. Although ill, it sucked its lemon lozenges, and manfully chugged out the Xtra spam to the names on my Outlook contact list.
Many of these names are mysteries which have boarded the boat without my consent, but the result of our spamming wasn't all bad - I received testy emails back from friends I'd been out of touch with for years, and got a call from a relative I was overdue to catch up with.
However, my email was stumbling to a halt. I put off calling the ISP helpdesk knowing you might better communicate with any call centre via two cans joined by a piece of string.
I have some sound advice about call centres. Before submitting yourself to one, I recommend you plan productive activities to complete while queuing.
Finishing the Old Testament perhaps, or having your kidney transplant. I eventually spent 60 minutes (yes) talking with a kindly Telecom rep who step by step, with meticulous, unflappable patience, guided us further into the bog.
She then decided this case merited a higher expert, and while I clawed the ceiling and gnawed at my hanky, she went in search of some guru called Raj. This swami sorted it in about six seconds. Thank you Raj.
However, the next day I received a Telecom email informing me with pained politeness that they knew I and my Toshiba had contracted the virus and were poxing our nearest and dearest. I wrote the appropriate response.
''Not my fault. In this household we always put the toilet seat back down. Has Xtra been so careful?'' I stowed it in ''drafts'' because you don't mess with city hall, and besides they'd warned that if I didn't change my password within 24 hours, I (and at least 60,000 other naughty Xtra spamsters) would have email accounts locked forthwith.
But at Raj's suggestion, I'd already revised my password, which was apparently one the entire student union could have decoded while dressing for its toga party. It was suggested I besmirch my mother's maiden name with numerals and nonsenses like #,@ and&.
Contrary to all advice, I wrote the resulting convolution down on a piece of paper and hid it. But don't worry, it's quite safe. I'm not a mug. I know I've put it somewhere.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
