“When angry, count to four. When very angry, swear.”

I hate technology. I think this is an emotion shared by many people who wish that the slashing of wires had a similar effect on computers as the slashing of a throat has on humans- a painful, messy and somewhat satisfying death. But right now I think I hate technology more than ever; the only reason I am using a computer right now as opposed to battering it with a wooden spoon is so that I can vent my fury over the interweb. The wooden spoon is waiting however, and I doubt the laptop will survive the experience.

What has brought about this hatred you ask? Simply the fact that so many things have gone wrong with it in recent history. Sky have refused to connect our phone line and set up our broadband without first making us wait a month, forcing us to spend many hours on the phone to their staff (perhaps there are issues of lonliness and self-worth in their personnel department?) and sending us so many letters I fear for the rain forests of the world. Yorkshire water managed to completely rearrange the numbers of my girlfriend's bank account with a creativity that rivals that of Dan Brown in the Da Vinci Code. And I am currently sat next to my friend whose laptop is refusing to connect to their wireless network whilst mine is working perfectly, almost taunting his frustration as he battles with system diagnostics and control panels.

This is the second blog in a row to have discussed questions of technology and you would be forgiven for assuming that this has become something of a theme. My last blog, just in case you haven't read it (and if you haven't you should; it's a riveting read), was all about our lack of internet and the revelations to have come out of this sorry state of affairs. My writing about it again only goes to further prove how important technology is to our lives, but I don't intend to repeat myself. Instead, I thought I'd look at the different ways in which we respond to frustrations; it's highly entertaining.

After much analysis (I thought about it just now whilst making a glass of squash) I think there are three different ways in which we respond to irritations. The first kind of people are those who simply aren't bothered by them. These people are about as rare as an immaculate conception (and are similarly questionable) but one example is my friend Luke who never seems to get angry at anything. It's almost frustrating; you could kill his mother, sleep with his girlfriend and use his balls to make a somewhat unpleasant soup and he wouldn't do more than shrug his shoulders and ask if you enjoyed it. It's tempting to see how far you could push it some times, but he's too lovable for that .

The second kind are those who become despondent in the face of problems. These people tend to wither like a daffodil in the desert any time they are confronted with frustrations, becoming as depressive and lifeless as Anne Robinson's face. They retire to their rooms, spend many hours playing runescape or something similarly mindless and eat anything vaguely edible (including socks which can be made palatable with a light layer of toothpaste) washed down with rainwater collected in a shoe. They only exit their lair when coaxed out with promises of cake and assurances of the death of the 'Go Compare' man. Again these individuals are uncommon, less so admittedly than those non-responders, but you're unlikely to meet them, which is a shame in my opinion; enough of them might gaurantee the demise of that operatic bastard.

The final category, and by far the most prevalent, are those who, like me, get angry. Very angry. Sometimes so angry that the nearest object, whether that be a remote control, a half-chopped onion or an unsuspecting hamster, can find itself flying through the air at high velocity wondering how it suddenly discovered the ability to travel in such a manner and why oh why it was chosen for such an undertaking. They often express their anger in colourful language that would make even the foul-mouthed Ricky Gervais blush and at a similar volume to that of a howler gibbon in a contest of 'Bogies'. This can be a truly terrifying experience for nearby individuals, who are warned to wear protection of any form to avoid shrapnel as said object explodes against a wall.

I don't intend to form a conclusion for you ladies and gentlemen. I'm not going to argue that we should all be more like type 1 person, or that not responding passionately suggests a lack of interest and imagination. I wouldn't want to insult your intelligence, and besides, my aim was neverto lecture but to entertain. If you laughed at any point then my mission is complete and I can return to the mothership.

If you are dissatisfied by this however, perhaps you could use this as some sort of quiz, like those ones you get in girly magazines to discover what your skin tone is or which of the twilight characters is most likely to marry you in the unlikely event of your meeting them and of their finding you in anyway remotely attractive. Work out which type of person you are. And if you're still dissatisfied, I offer a five year warranty, just make sure you've kept the receipt.

Now the laptop. Where's that spoon...

"For a list of all the ways technology has failed to improve the quality of life, please press three..."

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, it has certainly been a while! You'd be mistaken for imagining I had been on an expensive two-week holiday to Argentina, or had been detained for the theft of a £1.99 pencil sharpener from Smiths, or dare I say it that, as the second coming, I had died and come back to life with the express purpose of saving mankind from their sins, only had decided to extend the duration from three days to three weeks in order to achieve a higher 'wow' factor and a place in the Guinness Book of Records. I'm afraid to reveal, however, that all of these are far from the truth. The simple fact of the matter is that I have not had the internet for some time.

Such a revelation will undoubtedly be horrifying to some of you whose existence depends upon this link to the outside world. The fact that I am still alive, breathing and able to maintain a game of chess for over three quarters of an hour will seem a miracle, unbelievable and possibly even induce you to swoon into the arms of a wealthy potential lover named Lord Brandenburg. How does his heart still beat when he hasn't been able to announce his eating a banana on Facebook? How can he still function when he hasn't heard the latest gossip about Jordan's waxwork face (there's always 'Heat' magazine)? Well the fact is, friends, that it hasn't been as much of an ordeal as you might imagine. It did however reveal some somewhat interesting observations that I should like to share with you.

Did I miss the internet? Certainly. Did I miss it terribly? Not really. I missed it as a puppy might temporarily miss his absent master, but not as an erotomaniac might miss his nonreciprocating lover after he has murdered her with a bread stick and small pair of tweezers. It was certainly discomfiting not being able to keep up with the latest events in my friends' lives, and inconvenient to not be able to look up how many of Great Britain's monarchs were women and whether their respective reigns had more benefits for the nation than those of their male counterparts. But this was no major grievance; I simply found other things to do.

What was more surprising was that my world continued to revolve around my laptop despite its lack of connectivity. I would, for example, spend hours shooting people on games regardless of the fact that these people were bots as opposed to the extensions of other human beings. I would watch films as opposed to reading books, since an analysis of the two activities highlighted the former option's advantage of reduced physical exertion (none of that page-turning business). I would even do something as boring as defrag my hard drive just to occupy myself.

I'm hooked, almost wired up, to my laptop, of which the internet is but a useful and sometimes amusing tool. Taking away my computer would have been like removing one of my limbs; debilitating, painful and somewhat bloody. but the lack of internet was simply like breaking a wrist; a pain in the arse but workable. Is this the condition of all human beings now and not just myself? I think so. We rely so much on technology that to take it away from us would be horrific. My girlfriend's mother has a cooker with a touchscreen interface that can keep an individual entertained for hours with the short series of chromatically ascending beeps that accompany it's being turned on. Ludicrous and somewhat pathetic, but unfortunately and despicably true.

And now I shall read a book. Unplug for a little while and let my battery run down. Who knows, it might do me some good.

"Home is where the heart is."

I have a house. How exciting is that?!

It has walls, ceilings, windows and all sorts of other things that come together to make what we call "a house". It even has an outside toilet. Not that I shall be using it, but the fact that it does is somewhat exciting; I could answer the call of nature in the fresh air if I wanted. Although I probably would close the door, just for appearances sake. It has to be said that I have not moved in yet; I have yet to install my saucepans in the kitchen cupboards, to align my pencils on the desk and to christen the toilet. I haven't had time to book an appointment with the vicar yet, let alone take it to the local St Thomas'. But soon I will be eating in a new kitchen, sleeping in a new bed and stumbling up new stairs after a few too many at the Grindstone not 50 yards from my front door (the proximity of the pub is a feature that I particularly relish) and I have to say I have mixed feelings on the matter.

Houses are funny things aren't they? An old house can contain hundreds of years worth of memories, thousands of lives, millions of memories and countless spiders and bluebottles. You never know what could have happened in your house before you got there. Go back in time and there might have been a young family, struggling to make ends meet without their bankers' bonuses ("Theobald might have to give up the polo classes!"); an old lady whose husband still hasn't come back from the chip shop after nine years; maybe even someone who would rather not be remembered. In a friend's house we found strange red spatter marks at about head height in the shower. Freaky.

And as important as what's been before is the mark you put on the house yourself. Perhaps that's why leaving is so hard; I don't want my presence in this room to be entirely forgotten. I'm toying with the idea of boobytripping the bedside table with a boxing glove on a spring, or maybe a gun that produces a flag saying bang (assuming, of course, Acne didn't go out of business along with Loony Toons). It's somewhat strange and a tad discomforting to think that soon the Eiffel Tower on the back of my door could be replaced with Robert Pattinson posing as an undead romantic; the Golden Gate Bridge with a chart of drinking games; or 'Your First Spanish Words' with Cheryl Cole in nothing but a bed sheet. Actually, perhaps that's a change that should be implemented sooner...

So as exciting as it is to be moving somewhere new, I can't help feeling slightly daunted by the change. Living with my three best friends is possibly the most exciting prospect since Elizabeth asked Philip if he'd like to bring his mistress to bed tonight, but I'll be sad to leave behind my beloved room; even if the curtains don't close properly and I live opposite a Brummy who still thinks he's in the sixties and has a worrying obsession with Monty Python. More than anything it's scary to think I'll be a proper adult; I don't think I should be entrusted with the responsibility. I still struggle to clean my teeth without making my gums bleed, how am I meant to pay bills and remember to put the alarm on when I leave the house?

Dammit, that reminds me. Oh bugger, I'd better pop back...