Last night I got home after two glasses of wine, one game of football, one late-night trip to Euston station, a shakespeare workshop and about twelve thousand scripts, and switched on the laptop.
Everything was fuzzy. The words has furry edges. My head spun trying to read them.
I tried to find a way to correct the problem. I turned the computer on and off. I searched the control panel for screen adjusters. I searched the yellow pages. I thought of which friends I could call for advice after midnight. I gave up. I went to bed.
In the morning I woke and read a script and contemplated the calamity of the fuzzy screen.
I switched the machine on.
Its world was no longer fuzzy.
But then again, neither was my brain.
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