My swimming friend J and I are doing some workings on the computer. We are trying to follow instructions from guidelines, and we've been on the project for weeks. It would take someone with computer knowledge just a few hours to do what will eventually, probably, take a couple of months for us to complete.
It's the terminology that's throwing us. We're told that we have to make sure that a flibberty-gibbit follows a whatcha-macallit. And please to be aware that unless the doodlebug fits in with the temporal falange, then the biscotti could be null and void. Oh, and if we don't tick that we want the razzmatazz to be coupled with a widgereedo and not the fluffikins, then everything could explode in a load of pixie-dust (or is that 'pixels' - I never can remember the proper word, but I'm pretty sure I have the rest of the terminology spot on).
"We've done it! It worked!", J shouted as we finished one little thing. She shot up from her chair and did a Snoopy dance.
I joined her, kicking up my heels. We hi-fived, just like we do after each winter swim. Elation!
The following morning we discovered that whatever we'd done the previous day had evaporated in a cloud of that pixie-dust.
Both J and I worked on computers prior to retirement. We were both brilliant at it. But for some reason, nowadays, all our computer knowledge has flown out the window. We spend a lot of time giggling and chortling and collapsing on the floor in mild hysterics over the fact that our fingers are having trouble automatically finding something as mundane as the guide keys. It can't be 'old age'. It has to be the pixie-dust. Of course, I blame that naughty Tinkerbell. I guess she resides inside my laptop