Beaker and Miss T. and I spent Christmas, and then some time after that, far away from the confines of Granolaton. First a week with the in-laws out in the country, then a week visiting Dr. Wow at his fancy-schmancy corporate consulting gig, then a couple of days visiting with friends. The social stuff was pleasant but tiring, and the work was bracing and difficult, and it was good to get back home.
But everything is such a mess here! My department's offices were vandalized while I was getting lost in twisty hallways full of overpaid Dockers-clad thirty-somethings. My office, my computer, may have been particular targets. We are putting the pieces together, we are assisting the investigations, and I am full of righteous indignation.
Except that when I sit down at my desk, with a list of crucial e-mails to write, or when I try to pull my wits about me and get back to the damn manuscript, I am overcome by tiredness. We'll never know for sure who did it, they'll never get punished, and the underlying security flaws are not going to get addressed by anyone, ever. Can I just catch up on my sleep now, please?