This is made even worse if it was your fourth glass of the stuff, because then you're liable to make some daft decision about repairing it yourself.
"Keys?" you might, hypothetically, say to yourself, "They're just little buttons. How difficult can it be to whip 'em off, mop up the spillage and pop 'em back on again? Should take a couple of minutes, ten tops."
And it is very easy to take them off. A quick double click with a little screwdriver taken out of the miscellaneous drawer and, bish bash bosh, job done. A good start. Reward yourself with a quick swig of rum. There's a bit left in the bottom of the glass that's on it's side there.
Quick wipe down with a cloth, under the keys, under the rubbery mat, under the flat green electronicky thing that lies beneath like magic underlay. Should do the trick. Easier than putting up a shelf this. Even remembered to keep the keys in order. Look how organised it all is:
Now I was all set to put them back, ready for the great reboot.
Ah . . .
It took 6 minutes to get one key back on.There were thirty-one keys missing so that means . . . 186 minutes to stick 'em all back on. Over 3 hours. The first key was also wobbly.
And didn't work.
Bugger.
So, the following day involved a trip to the local computer oik, who nearly laughed his acne off at my pathetic laptoppery efforts. He took great delight in telling me that new ones were £60 and had to be ordered in. I hung my head in shame and despair, keening gently and rocking. A solitary tear of sympathy rolled down his face alongside the trails of sebum and grease, dropping onto his poptart like a rainbow-hued petal as he took pity on me, saying he would look for a used one. I was pitifully grateful, and it was all sorted out in a couple of days for a lot cheaper than the initial estimate.
Still, that was a thirty-five quid glass of rum.
