Not much knitting to report today. Tier Three still needs its side edgings, and religion (Maundy Thursday) will cut into knitting time. I’ll try to grab an hour from the rest of the day to get it finished.
I’m having a lot of trouble these days with Spam Comments – Blogger is now set to submit them for moderation if they are attached to an entry more than two weeks old. I don’t think I’ve ever had a genuine one come in under that rule.
At the moment, I’m getting them every three or four hours, night and day, for Friday, November 13, ’09. Was that one picked because it was Friday the 13th? Or because in it I complained of bum comments? And, what’s the point? Maybe there is no point. Maybe somebody has a virus, and the virus is sending comments to my blog.
Yesterday I got an email (nothing to do with the blog) purportedly from an old Oberlin friend with whom I correspond very infrequently. The subject line was “Antoine Cerezo” and the text consisted in its entirety of a link on which I injudiciously clicked. It was a webpage advertising Viagra.
I ordered a full system scan at once, and Norton found nothing wrong. Once, long ago, when I really did have a virus (KLEZ.H, for the record), the first thing it did was disable my then virus protection. So it was a comfort to find that Norton still appeared to be functioning.
I wrote to the Oberlin friend to tell him I thought he might have a virus. No reply, as yet. I don’t think any other address book in the universe (well, maybe Oberlin College’s) would have both his address and mine, so it’s got to be one or the other of us, doesn’t it?
I’d welcome advice from anyone who knows about these things – or about Antoine Cerezo, who has what I think my sister calls a “big Google”. And, of course, if anyone who has corresponded with me at the address in the sidebar gets a funny message “from” me – let me know. KLEZ.H took hold of the address book and sent messages far and wide.
Catdownunder, it’s not just rain we have too much of around here. It’s snow. Pretty ridiculous.
Alexander and Ketki and their sons, and my husband’s sister and her (obviously, grown-up, indeed middle-aged) daughter are coming to lunch on Sunday. I used to cook for six every day of the world, twice a day at weekends. But by now, it has become an Event, and something of an anxiety. Alexander is a brilliant cook, and everything I try to do for any group in which he is included can be guaranteed to turn out a disaster.
Still, there’ll be plenty to drink.