Yes, dear, solitary, no pals, JT reader, normal service is being somewhat suspended over the next few weeks.

What’s happening is that my SO and our webmistress is off to Upside Down World avec fils for a family wedding, and with her she takes the skills-set necessary to, as the young people who know about the interweb insist on calling it, "update" the site.

As the long term reader of The JT already knows, your Editor does not possess the skills required to do the work. This failing stems mainly from my rather limited understanding about how computers work - I think it's something to do with elves.

As I understand it, when you type something into the computer to share with the world, little elves inside the machine put all the resultant words into packets and carry the packets off, down the phone line to other PCs where different elves are waiting to busily open the packets and, using special paint, put up the words on the receiving machine’s screen.

I may have got some of the detail wrong, but I’m sure you get the idea.

Anyway, as far as I can make out, not just anyone can set the elves about their required task. I’m led to believe after long seconds of thought on the matter, that you need a special elfin flute to summon the elves to perform. Truth to tell, I don’t have that flute so nothing else remains to be said.

What passes for normal service around here will be resumed sometime in late April when the webmistress returns from Upside Down World with her flute, so, to be honest, I wouldn’t expect any updates in between times.

There is an outside possibility that JT subscribers will receive the occasional gag in plain text, but that’s only going to happen if I can figure out how to do a mass mailing of the subscriber address book so don’t hold your breath.

However, for those readers who are beginning to suspect that your Editor is a bit of a numpty vis à vis IT I will now demonstrate my technical acuity by introducing a web first.

Those young people familiar with the concept of a "blog" expect said online diaries to be a record of past events. Ah, ha, ha you naïve fools! For below, I introduce a blog of the future, a meticolous record of things that haven’t happened yet. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Mr Gates!

Saturday, 26^th March 2005. To Glasgow Airport.
SO and son’s bags are packed in the car. Very tearful scenes, a lot of crying and emoting. SO insists I stop hanging on to her leg while blubbing like a girl and get the car started.

Glasgow Airport.
SO asks why I’m not stopping at the passenger terminal. Somewhat recovered from my totally ineffective display of grief, I merely point to the sign for the cargo terminal and tap the side of my nose meaningfully.

SO finally gets the meaning when I pull up beside a large wooden box about to be loaded onto the Sydney flight with my pal airport worker Willie in furtive attendance.

I take the opportunity to explain that the bargain prices I managed to obtain for the flight mean that SO and son will not be travelling in the passenger cabin as such. Close to the cabin, but sort of, underneath it. In the cargo hold.

Willie and I cheerfully nail down the top of the packing case after making sure that the SO and son are comfy.

I’ll always remember my SO’s parting words: "Are you sure the cargo-hold’s pressurised?" she screams endearingly. Promise to check on an aircraft website when I get home. Ta ta.

Home, Evening, 26^th March.
The Scotland-Italy game’s coming on the telly. Last minute check on beer and nuts supplies and whereabouts of the TV remote. Ten minutes into the game, with Italy a comfortable ten goals to the good, I switch off the TV with the remote and look for the cat. Have long held the view that the cat is secretly English and privately relishes the all too common occurrence of Scotland getting gubbed. Cat has barricaded himself into bedroom and is threatening to call the police. Make great show of running noisily down the stairs and then creeping silently back up, armed with beer, nuts, a good book and a baseball bat. Oh yes, I can wait…

Monday 28^th March 10.00 pm.
Have become convinced over the months that the agreeably bendy looking Maura Tierney off ER is sending me secret messages. Freed from the SO’s customary snorts of derision and offers to seek psychiatric advice on my behalf, I can relax and watch ER secure in the knowledge that Maura’s definitely up for it tonight.

Calculating that Maura will be knocking on my door just after her shift finishes, I have made preparations. A tea tray is set out, with the best shortbread Scotland has to offer. I recline seductively on the sofa clad in a very attractive smoking jacket while puffing manfully on a Meerschaum I found in a skip.

Come out of a troubled doze at 3am to find Maura has not arrived, my smoking jacket has gone out and the cat’s eaten all the shortbread.

"She’s probably had to work late in the ER" I tell the cat, who merely smirks in return.

Very smirky animals, cats.

Friday, 1st of April. 8pm
Hot dog! It’s a Friday night and the wolf’s on the prowl!

I’ve decided to dress up in my best man about town gear, last aired back in 1973. The cheesecloth shirt’s a bit tight and I can’t seem to get my loon pants to fasten at the waist. No matter, with a copy of "Led Zeppelin Two" tucked under my arm, I can’t fail to impress the ladees!

I stride confidently into a local bar and stride out ten minutes later having won the night’s fancy dress competition. And I didn’t even enter. I look at my watch: 8.31 pm. The night’s still young!

Fall asleep in the taxi on the way home. Cat pays off the cab and puts me to bed prior to settling down to watch The Simpsons at 9pm.

2^nd April to 10^th April, can’t remember the time.
Bored. Very bored. This being on my own isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.

Find I’m missing the company of my SO and son. Make myself fell better by going into the bathroom and throwing make-up containers all over the place just like the SO does. I leave the toothpaste un-capped for extra verisimilitude and turn up my son’s Hi-Fi really loud in his bedroom. Wait five minutes and rush back into his bedroom shouting "Turn that bloody racket down, for chrissakes!"

It all helps a little.

I console myself by looking at past editions of The JT. A little voice in my ear whispers "God, it's not very good is it?" Little voice belongs to the cat, sitting on my shoulder, looking at the PC monitor. Chase cat and his little voice with my big voice and big baseball bat.

I’ve been talking to myself quite a bit the last few days, but I had an argument with myself last night and now I’m not talking to myself. I’ll let myself stew a bit, that’ll teach me.

I’m reduced to phoning my student daughter and asking her if she wants to come home for a bit. She’s suspicious. "You never want me to come home" she correctly points out, "Anytime I do come home you check my bag when I’m leaving to see what food, money and stuff I’ve nicked".

"I know, I know" I beg, "But honestly, I won’t mind this time. Oh pleeze. I’m lonely." Daughter regretfully declines the offer, explaining that she’s suddenly remembered that she has to go on a field trip to Azerbaijan right away, This very minute, goodbye.

Sometime, whenever.
Haven’t shaved in days. I look in the mirror and I don’t recognise myself. Then realise that I’m not actually looking into the mirror, I’m looking through the window at the postman.

A postcard from SO and son. I put on glasses to read the message, and then take the glasses off again when I remember that I don’t actually usually wear glasses.