I've just discovered another mistake. I don't know where I got this idea that I knew what I was doing. It's just one of those delusions which help me through the fraught processes of life. The scales are falling (or rather, being ripped, unceremoniously) from my eyes.
I've been uploading all my photos to a google web site for backup. It also has the useful side-effect of making them easier to email, because I only have to send a pointer, rather than the photo. But it was really to keep them safe. Now I discover that many of them are only fit for emailing, since they are stored at low definition.
It's because I didn't read the instructions. No, that's not true: given what's gone wrong, even if I'd read the instructions, I wouldn't have quite understood. So, at least, I did save a bit of time.
But I now have a huge backup problem. I shall copy them to my memory stick pro-tem, just to reduce the risk. (I can't help wondering if two copies halves the risk, or quarters it, or even some other value)
The world is full of drawing boards, back to which I am being dragged.
Slater is a small, quiet railway town, laid out in a grid, like most American towns are. It's to do with the way they were originally surveyed and platted.
Trains go through from time-to-time. The one I stopped to watch had nine locomotives in front, and took four minutes to pass.
Slater also has a small, quiet bar, in which sit a group of grown-up ladies, listening to country and western songs on the juke box. If only I'd worn my Stetson.
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