Thursday, 29 December 2016
Better Never Than Late?
I am coming back.
I will finish off the Harold story.
Been occupied with all sort of other silliness: 2 new jobs and a lot of songwriting/music-making (a lot of it with Don't Feed the Pixies).
I now own a total of 5 ukuleles, but I'm not obsessed with them, really, I'm not.
I also have 5 cats as well and, OK, I am obsessed with them, obviously.
It's about time.
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
Gift-wrapping Blues
A little seasonal fun. Feel free to make up your own tune or extra words...
Gift-wrapping Blues
Some, they have a talent, a real artistic flair,
To make their gifts look lovely, so clearly wrapped with care.
Adorned with bows and ribbons, with bits of tinsel in.
Now gaze upon my own poor gift, like something from a bin.
Chorus:
Oh, why can't all my Christmas gifts be oblong?
Oh why can not the gifts I give be square?
Now I bet you think that this is quite an odd song.
But present wrapping fills me with despair.
I bet you think that I am quite pathetic,
Wishing for a world's that's parallel.
But if only everything was geometric
It would save me from a yearly Christmas hell.
My sister's gifts are perfect, like little works of art.
It's clear that every fold and bow is something from the heart.
My presents, let me tell you, are also wrapped with love.
They only LOOK like things I wrapped up while wearing boxing gloves.
My mother has a magic way with string and bow and tape.
To fold, to tuck with genius and swathe the oddest shape.
It kills me, when I start to wrap my perfect sure fire hits
The flippin' paper's shredded by all the pointy bits.
This year I think I have a plan, I think it will impress
It's simple and it's easy and will put an end to stress.
It's really very basic, and you'll know I'm not a rube
'Cos everybody's gift this year will be a Rubik's cube.
Chorus 2
We are nearly at the end of this quite odd song,
And I have found the answer to my prayer.
And although my presents will not all be oblong
It's even better for me that they're square.
So now my heart it is no longer sinking
And present-wrapping's not a thing to fear
But, wait a bit, what's is this that I'm thinking
What the hell am I gonna get you all next year?
Merry Christmas to you all....!!!
Gift-wrapping Blues
Some, they have a talent, a real artistic flair,
To make their gifts look lovely, so clearly wrapped with care.
Adorned with bows and ribbons, with bits of tinsel in.
Now gaze upon my own poor gift, like something from a bin.
Chorus:
Oh, why can't all my Christmas gifts be oblong?
Oh why can not the gifts I give be square?
Now I bet you think that this is quite an odd song.
But present wrapping fills me with despair.
I bet you think that I am quite pathetic,
Wishing for a world's that's parallel.
But if only everything was geometric
It would save me from a yearly Christmas hell.
My sister's gifts are perfect, like little works of art.
It's clear that every fold and bow is something from the heart.
My presents, let me tell you, are also wrapped with love.
They only LOOK like things I wrapped up while wearing boxing gloves.
My mother has a magic way with string and bow and tape.
To fold, to tuck with genius and swathe the oddest shape.
It kills me, when I start to wrap my perfect sure fire hits
The flippin' paper's shredded by all the pointy bits.
This year I think I have a plan, I think it will impress
It's simple and it's easy and will put an end to stress.
It's really very basic, and you'll know I'm not a rube
'Cos everybody's gift this year will be a Rubik's cube.
Chorus 2
We are nearly at the end of this quite odd song,
And I have found the answer to my prayer.
And although my presents will not all be oblong
It's even better for me that they're square.
So now my heart it is no longer sinking
And present-wrapping's not a thing to fear
But, wait a bit, what's is this that I'm thinking
What the hell am I gonna get you all next year?
Merry Christmas to you all....!!!
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
Monday, 29 April 2013
A New Home in the Sky - 21st-Century Nightmare
The other day, what with lunchtime growing smaller in the rearview mirror and home time depressingly invisible beyond the ten-mile tailback of the dead afternoon, a colleague of ours recounted a recent dream he'd had.
'It was a real nightmare,' he said, 'Just awful! I was dreaming about my job at this place.'
Now, this man is employed to negotiate commercial contracts for Klueless Corp.
This is a job requiring the holder to be able to assimilate, internalise and generate contracts of labyrinthine and inprenetrable complexity. Contracts which clients will happily sign, believing they have just won the Lottery when, in fact, according to the acres of small print, they've just signed over all rights to the internal organs of themselves, their families and their pets, in perpetuity, to Klueless.
This is a job requiring an extensive knowledge of the kind of cut-throat and underhand commercial practices undertaken by Klueless and others of its ruthless kidney in the Business Process Outsourcing sector.
This is a job which, while it requires the incumbent to take on the aspect of a member of the genus Mustela*, is not really a job, one would have thought, to epitomise the very essence of terror. Stress, maybe, but not terror.
Anyway, in the dream, my colleague was having to draft an important and urgently-needed document in MS Word, and every time he got to the end of the document....
'A slavering monster appeared, bent on ripping out your gizzards**!' we cried, not being ones to allow a story to unfold without interruption.
'Nope,' he replied, 'It was more subtle than that.'
'All your clothes disappeared and you found yourself in a public place!'
'Nope. I was properly attired the whole time, and anyway, that's not a nightmare***.'
'You had to play a Chopin nocturne in A minor to a really big audience and you'd only learned it in F sharp minor!' I cried.
The others looked at me in stony silence.
'Just me then,' I mumbled, 'pray continue.'
'Every time I got to the end of the document,' he explained, 'all the formatting disappeared!"
So there you have it: disappearing bullet points, random font changes, erroneous tables of contents and hanging indents that just don't hang.
Truly, the very stuff of nightmares.
Twenty-first century nightmares.
* Behave like a weasel.
** The word 'gizzards' is not used nearly enough in general conversation, don’t you think?
*** Go figure
'It was a real nightmare,' he said, 'Just awful! I was dreaming about my job at this place.'
Now, this man is employed to negotiate commercial contracts for Klueless Corp.
This is a job requiring the holder to be able to assimilate, internalise and generate contracts of labyrinthine and inprenetrable complexity. Contracts which clients will happily sign, believing they have just won the Lottery when, in fact, according to the acres of small print, they've just signed over all rights to the internal organs of themselves, their families and their pets, in perpetuity, to Klueless.
This is a job requiring an extensive knowledge of the kind of cut-throat and underhand commercial practices undertaken by Klueless and others of its ruthless kidney in the Business Process Outsourcing sector.
This is a job which, while it requires the incumbent to take on the aspect of a member of the genus Mustela*, is not really a job, one would have thought, to epitomise the very essence of terror. Stress, maybe, but not terror.
Anyway, in the dream, my colleague was having to draft an important and urgently-needed document in MS Word, and every time he got to the end of the document....
'A slavering monster appeared, bent on ripping out your gizzards**!' we cried, not being ones to allow a story to unfold without interruption.
'Nope,' he replied, 'It was more subtle than that.'
'All your clothes disappeared and you found yourself in a public place!'
'Nope. I was properly attired the whole time, and anyway, that's not a nightmare***.'
'You had to play a Chopin nocturne in A minor to a really big audience and you'd only learned it in F sharp minor!' I cried.
The others looked at me in stony silence.
'Just me then,' I mumbled, 'pray continue.'
'Every time I got to the end of the document,' he explained, 'all the formatting disappeared!"
So there you have it: disappearing bullet points, random font changes, erroneous tables of contents and hanging indents that just don't hang.
Truly, the very stuff of nightmares.
Twenty-first century nightmares.
* Behave like a weasel.
** The word 'gizzards' is not used nearly enough in general conversation, don’t you think?
*** Go figure
Sunday, 21 April 2013
You Know It When You See It
Today, I went to visit a nephew of mine in hospital who, along with his Easter eggs this year, was handed a diagnosis of Acute Myeloid Leukaemia.
This is not a post about cancer, though, and it’s not really about my nephew as such either. He was just the reason I happened to be in a certain place at a certain time, in position to witness something very delightful.
As we were leaving my nephew's ward, my mother decided to visit the bathroom, so in she went while I waited outside in the corridor.
Now, the teenage cancer unit my nephew is on is part of a larger children’s oncology department catering for kids of all ages from tiny tots up to eighteen-year-olds and, as it's a regional unit, is pretty busy even on a Sunday.
So, anyhow, there I am waiting for mother dear, idly indulging it a spot of people-watching, when I suddenly become aware of some kind of ruckus coming down the corridor towards me.
Curious, I turn to see what’s occurring and am greeted by the sight of this little bald-headed kid of no more than four or five at a guess, excitedly tearing down the corridor, with mother and drip stand in happy (but ever-so-slightly anxious) pursuit. Along with these, he is hauling along a set of three cardboard boxes of various sizes all connected together by string, so as to form a little train of sorts. Each box contains a few random toys, and the little chap is knocking on and pushing open various doors along the way, singing out at the top of his voice “Special delivery!”
As he passes by them, each and every one of the various staff members, patients and visitors dotted about (including yours truly), breaks into a smile or a chuckle.
So far as this little boy is concerned, today he does not have cancer. Today, he is not in hospital. Today, he does not face a future filled with chemo and blood tests.
Today, he is a postman and he’s having the time of his life.
Even the very best of hospitals can be dark, sad places at times but, now and then, a ray of sunshine comes bursting through, radiant and unexpected.
Now, I don’t suppose I shall ever cross paths with that little fellow again. I don’t know his name, I don’t know his background. I don't know what will become of him.
But I do know unalloyed joy when I see it, and how it shines!
Monday, 1 April 2013
An Easter helping of Harold
At the risk of sounding like a stereotypical medieval Arab trader, a thousand apologies for the delay in bringing you this. No excuses, just lame-osity.
The huge steel door closed with a dull boom behind Harold and India and they found themselves in a large, well-lit area. Workbenches and complicated-looking equipment practically filled the place and navigation was only possible through a maze of aisles marked off with red and yellow floor tape. Down the sides and at the far end of the room, they could see doors leading off to other spaces, offices, storerooms and so on. The place seemed to be deserted. Under the shriek of the fire alarms, the air was filled with the hum of equipments fans.
“We haven’t got much time,” said India. “You take the left side and I’ll take the right,”
“Alright,” replied Harold. He reached up under his chin and partly unzipped the front of his ‘invisibility’ suit.
“What on earth are you doing?” demanded India, “You’ll set off their sensors. Are you mad?”
“If two can cover more ground than one, then three can cover more than two,” Harold replied. As he pulled the zipper down, a small grey head appeared and Teatime quickly squirmed his way out onto Harold’s shoulder before jumping down onto a nearby bench. Harold quickly zipped up again.
“About time, old biscuit!” grumbled the small simian, “Another few minutes in there and I should have suffocated.” He glanced around, frowning, “Ah, of course! You’re invisible. Right, let’s get to it, then. I’ll get up there and do a spot of aerial reconnaissance, meet back by the door here!” With that, he scampered up a nearby shelf unit and began making his way down the room by dint of a series of bounds from one tall unit to the next.
Harold and India, constrained by having to follow the marked-out aisles at ground level split up and began to make their own slower way into the room.
A guard stuck his head round the door to Moon’s office. “We have to leave, sir,” he said loudly over the din of the fire alarm.
“Be right there,” Moon replied in kind. The guard’s head disappeared and Moon stood up. He was about to walk out when something on his computer screen flickered briefly. He leant over to take a closer look. The screen was showing the feed from the c-sensors inside the building, but there was nothing there now. He flicked over to a visual feed but the cameras revealed nothing. Moon pursed his lips, maybe it had just been a blip, a bit of electronic noise. Yeah, he said to himself and that fire alarm is just a coincidence, yeah right!
Moon slid open his desk drawer, withdrew his gun and, after a moment’s consideration, his taser. He stuffed them into his pocket, walked over to the door and pulled it open a crack. He waited until he was sure the corridor outside was empty of people and then strode purposefully towards the nearest stairs leading down.
Harold, India and Teatime arrived at the far end of the large room, having found nothing to point to the whereabouts of Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada. Ahead of them was one final set of doors, large double ones, not dissimilar to the ones by which they had entered the room. They were closed, but not – as Harold discovered by giving them a hefty shove – locked.
They swung open to reveal another large space. Two rows of what looked like large chemical storage tanks marched away towards the far end of the chamber. A tangle of pipes crawled over each tank like some shiny metal parasite and on the front of each was a monitor screen, presumably showing the status of the tank’s contents.
The fire alarm ceased all of a sudden.
“We better hurry, they’ll be coming back in soon,” said India.
“I can’t imagine that the other agents will be anywhere in here,” said Harold, doubtfully.
“I say, come and look at this!” cried Teatime, who’d climbed up the pipework on the nearest tank to peer at the adjacent monitor screen.
India and Harold crowded up to the screen. It was displaying a few graphs and several sets of numbers which changed every so often.
“Top left corner,” prompted Teatime.
“Susan,” breathed India in wonder. Harold ran to the next monitor.
“This one says ‘Crippled Tom!’” he cried.
“And this one is ‘Territhiel’” said Teatime, who’d hopped over to another tank.
“Looks like we’ve found our missing angels and Fallen,” said India.
The huge steel door closed with a dull boom behind Harold and India and they found themselves in a large, well-lit area. Workbenches and complicated-looking equipment practically filled the place and navigation was only possible through a maze of aisles marked off with red and yellow floor tape. Down the sides and at the far end of the room, they could see doors leading off to other spaces, offices, storerooms and so on. The place seemed to be deserted. Under the shriek of the fire alarms, the air was filled with the hum of equipments fans.
“We haven’t got much time,” said India. “You take the left side and I’ll take the right,”
“Alright,” replied Harold. He reached up under his chin and partly unzipped the front of his ‘invisibility’ suit.
“What on earth are you doing?” demanded India, “You’ll set off their sensors. Are you mad?”
“If two can cover more ground than one, then three can cover more than two,” Harold replied. As he pulled the zipper down, a small grey head appeared and Teatime quickly squirmed his way out onto Harold’s shoulder before jumping down onto a nearby bench. Harold quickly zipped up again.
“About time, old biscuit!” grumbled the small simian, “Another few minutes in there and I should have suffocated.” He glanced around, frowning, “Ah, of course! You’re invisible. Right, let’s get to it, then. I’ll get up there and do a spot of aerial reconnaissance, meet back by the door here!” With that, he scampered up a nearby shelf unit and began making his way down the room by dint of a series of bounds from one tall unit to the next.
Harold and India, constrained by having to follow the marked-out aisles at ground level split up and began to make their own slower way into the room.
-0-0-0-0-
A guard stuck his head round the door to Moon’s office. “We have to leave, sir,” he said loudly over the din of the fire alarm.
“Be right there,” Moon replied in kind. The guard’s head disappeared and Moon stood up. He was about to walk out when something on his computer screen flickered briefly. He leant over to take a closer look. The screen was showing the feed from the c-sensors inside the building, but there was nothing there now. He flicked over to a visual feed but the cameras revealed nothing. Moon pursed his lips, maybe it had just been a blip, a bit of electronic noise. Yeah, he said to himself and that fire alarm is just a coincidence, yeah right!
Moon slid open his desk drawer, withdrew his gun and, after a moment’s consideration, his taser. He stuffed them into his pocket, walked over to the door and pulled it open a crack. He waited until he was sure the corridor outside was empty of people and then strode purposefully towards the nearest stairs leading down.
Harold, India and Teatime arrived at the far end of the large room, having found nothing to point to the whereabouts of Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada. Ahead of them was one final set of doors, large double ones, not dissimilar to the ones by which they had entered the room. They were closed, but not – as Harold discovered by giving them a hefty shove – locked.
They swung open to reveal another large space. Two rows of what looked like large chemical storage tanks marched away towards the far end of the chamber. A tangle of pipes crawled over each tank like some shiny metal parasite and on the front of each was a monitor screen, presumably showing the status of the tank’s contents.
The fire alarm ceased all of a sudden.
“We better hurry, they’ll be coming back in soon,” said India.
“I can’t imagine that the other agents will be anywhere in here,” said Harold, doubtfully.
“I say, come and look at this!” cried Teatime, who’d climbed up the pipework on the nearest tank to peer at the adjacent monitor screen.
India and Harold crowded up to the screen. It was displaying a few graphs and several sets of numbers which changed every so often.
“Top left corner,” prompted Teatime.
“Susan,” breathed India in wonder. Harold ran to the next monitor.
“This one says ‘Crippled Tom!’” he cried.
“And this one is ‘Territhiel’” said Teatime, who’d hopped over to another tank.
“Looks like we’ve found our missing angels and Fallen,” said India.
Wednesday, 13 February 2013
Be a-Freud, Be VERY a-Freud
New technology is marvellous and I, for one, am generally a fan.
I recently upgraded my mobile phone and discovered that my new one has voice-to-text, which has proved to be very speedy when creating text messages.
The following true story, however, provides a salutary lesson - use the tech. but don't trust it.
The other day I received a text, asking about my plans for the next day, and offering a ride to the office. In reply, I dictated the following 15 fairly straighforward (I would have thought) words:
“Yes I am planning to go into the office and yes please to a lift.”
yes please.
yes.
please.
The other cool thing my new phone has is auto-correction - which works even when you're dictating, apparently. I was about to press SEND but decided to take just a moment to check the words that had been generated.
“Yes I am planning to go into the office and yes penis to a lift.”
yes penis.
yes.
penis.
The text was intended for my (male) boss.
I’m really glad I read it first.
I'll be more careful when dicktating in future.
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
New Year's Irresolution
So, resolutely ignoring the hollow rattle of the bucket as it hits the parched bottom of the Well of Creativity, I’m going to try and do a blog post a week from now on.
Someone once said something like “Inspiration may not turn up, but you have to.” This is a good point; sometimes you just need to write and damn the consequences. Sometimes the act of writing primes the pump and ideas then begin to flow.
I really hope that’s the case.
So what have I been doing with all my non-blogging days then?
Well, we got three adorable kittens in the middle of last year, making our cat-count five in total. I’ve always only ever had full-grown cats before and I have to say I think I’ve been missing out. Watching them develop has been a real joy; seeing them do one day something they couldn’t manage the day before, then seeing them improve on it the next day is just delightful.
I’ve also done a couple of open mic spots at a local venue – on my own (previously, I’ve appeared with Don’t Feed the Pixies). This was mega-scary, but mega-satisfying. The venue is one where the open mic night is the best organised and resourced I’ve seen to date: a proper stage with monitoring so you can hear yourself, and a really supportive atmosphere. This is an event where people come purposefully to listen and enjoy live music, not just drink and talk with their mates. Hoping to do more and maybe video it and post it here, you never know.
DftP and I did the second NaSoWriMo (National Song-Writing Month - DftP’s invention of writing 10 songs in the month of December) and I’m pretty pleased with most of the ones I managed to crank out – seems some creativity remains, which gives me a bit of hope.
Anyway, back to work.
Thanks for sticking with me (if you have) and I don’t blame you if you haven’t – not that you’ll be reading this anyway.
Saturday, 20 October 2012
Assuming anyone's still around to read this....
It's been a while and I've no credible excuses either.
Anyway, here's an old Wordzzle:
Words to include: Speech, local, crowd, rock fall, back-scratcher
Sam did not consider hismself a hero – local or otherwise, and eyed the front page of the Town Gazette with distaste. ‘Local hero saves OAP from rock fall!’ screeched the headlines. A small crowd had formed outside his house, which was very annoying when, hero or not, he still had to get to work. Headlines didn’t pay the mortgage after all, did they? Sighing, he pulled open the front door and tried to push his way through to his old car. “Speech! Speech!” chanted the crowd. “Unctious! Dish-mop! Perfidy! Herringbone! Back-scratcher!” he shouted back at them. Startled, the people quieted immediately, then began to mutter in puzzlement to one another. While they were thus occuppied, Sam jumped into his trusty old Volvo and executed his getaway, which while not exactly speedy, was at least effective.
And some more Harold - almost there now, folks! Catch-up, top right.
At the far end of the hall from where Harold, India, Box and Mr Teeth were grouped, a set of steel security doors swung open and a small group of Infinity employees trooped out, led by a middle-aged, clip-board wielding woman, sporting a hastily-donned hi-vis vest blazoned with the words ‘Fire Marshal’.
Harold and India, invisible still in their suits, instinctively shrank back against the wall as the small group passed, no doubt heading for the door to the underground parking garage, which would be the nearest exit. The fire marshal, seeing Box and Mr Teeth making no apparent move to exit the building, halted by them and began to insist that they leave with her group.
This was a tough one for Box: if he and Mr teeth failed to act normally and leave, suspicions would be aroused. On the other hand, if they did as they were told, the demon and Agent India would be left on their own. There was no way he could even tell where those two were right now, much less get any kind of signal to them.
“It’s probably just a drill,” he said quite loudly, ostensibly to the woman, “we’ll be all trouping back in here again in a minute, I bet. Nothing to get worried about.”
She gave Box a slightly quizzical look and held out an arm in an ‘after you’ gesture. Box and Mr teeth reluctantly turned and started walking.
Harold and India had discovered early on that they could see each other whilst the suits were powered up, even if nobody else could see them – a most sensible feature for a suit with military applications. As the group of employees filed past, Harold beckoned to India and began running towards the security door, which was beginning to swing closed. He had noticed that the doors were very thick steel and beyond them was a large, well-lit area. Perhaps, he thought, Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada were being hed in there somewhere. Not knowing what better to do and very keen not to get separated, India trotted after him.
The door to the conference room opened and four grim-looking guards stood in the corridor beyond. The nearest of them barked at Mercury, Prada and Othello to accompany him and no nonsense. The three agents did as they were told.
“Where’s Moon?” Mercury asked the guard.
“Not here.” Replied the man, in a flat voice.
Outside, in the hallway, there was a quiet orderly bustle as the relatively few employees present in the building at this time of night made their way to the nearest exit, just like they’d no doubt drilled.
Pretty soon, they were in the Infinity parking lot. The guards ushered them to stand apart from the main body of employees.
Mercury looked around, eyes narrowed, seeking possible escape opportunities. There weren’t any but as his eyes swept over the small crowd of Infinity people, he was astonished to see….could it be? Reverend Box and the big enforcer, Mr Teeth, dressed in something that looked like what the guards that captured them had been wearing.
He nudged Othello and gave a slight twitch of his head. The other agent glanced casually over to where Mercury had indicated and his eyes widened slightly, but that was all. He was not going to do anything to alert the guards.
Mr Teeth felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and held it to his ear. It was Pauli, asking for instructions now that things had apparently changed. No part of their plan had included an inpromptu fire-drill after all.
“Wait ‘till we’reall back inside, then carry on as agreed,” He said.
Anyway, here's an old Wordzzle:
Words to include: Speech, local, crowd, rock fall, back-scratcher
Sam did not consider hismself a hero – local or otherwise, and eyed the front page of the Town Gazette with distaste. ‘Local hero saves OAP from rock fall!’ screeched the headlines. A small crowd had formed outside his house, which was very annoying when, hero or not, he still had to get to work. Headlines didn’t pay the mortgage after all, did they? Sighing, he pulled open the front door and tried to push his way through to his old car. “Speech! Speech!” chanted the crowd. “Unctious! Dish-mop! Perfidy! Herringbone! Back-scratcher!” he shouted back at them. Startled, the people quieted immediately, then began to mutter in puzzlement to one another. While they were thus occuppied, Sam jumped into his trusty old Volvo and executed his getaway, which while not exactly speedy, was at least effective.
And some more Harold - almost there now, folks! Catch-up, top right.
At the far end of the hall from where Harold, India, Box and Mr Teeth were grouped, a set of steel security doors swung open and a small group of Infinity employees trooped out, led by a middle-aged, clip-board wielding woman, sporting a hastily-donned hi-vis vest blazoned with the words ‘Fire Marshal’.
Harold and India, invisible still in their suits, instinctively shrank back against the wall as the small group passed, no doubt heading for the door to the underground parking garage, which would be the nearest exit. The fire marshal, seeing Box and Mr Teeth making no apparent move to exit the building, halted by them and began to insist that they leave with her group.
This was a tough one for Box: if he and Mr teeth failed to act normally and leave, suspicions would be aroused. On the other hand, if they did as they were told, the demon and Agent India would be left on their own. There was no way he could even tell where those two were right now, much less get any kind of signal to them.
“It’s probably just a drill,” he said quite loudly, ostensibly to the woman, “we’ll be all trouping back in here again in a minute, I bet. Nothing to get worried about.”
She gave Box a slightly quizzical look and held out an arm in an ‘after you’ gesture. Box and Mr teeth reluctantly turned and started walking.
Harold and India had discovered early on that they could see each other whilst the suits were powered up, even if nobody else could see them – a most sensible feature for a suit with military applications. As the group of employees filed past, Harold beckoned to India and began running towards the security door, which was beginning to swing closed. He had noticed that the doors were very thick steel and beyond them was a large, well-lit area. Perhaps, he thought, Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada were being hed in there somewhere. Not knowing what better to do and very keen not to get separated, India trotted after him.
-0-0-0-0-0-
The door to the conference room opened and four grim-looking guards stood in the corridor beyond. The nearest of them barked at Mercury, Prada and Othello to accompany him and no nonsense. The three agents did as they were told.
“Where’s Moon?” Mercury asked the guard.
“Not here.” Replied the man, in a flat voice.
Outside, in the hallway, there was a quiet orderly bustle as the relatively few employees present in the building at this time of night made their way to the nearest exit, just like they’d no doubt drilled.
Pretty soon, they were in the Infinity parking lot. The guards ushered them to stand apart from the main body of employees.
Mercury looked around, eyes narrowed, seeking possible escape opportunities. There weren’t any but as his eyes swept over the small crowd of Infinity people, he was astonished to see….could it be? Reverend Box and the big enforcer, Mr Teeth, dressed in something that looked like what the guards that captured them had been wearing.
He nudged Othello and gave a slight twitch of his head. The other agent glanced casually over to where Mercury had indicated and his eyes widened slightly, but that was all. He was not going to do anything to alert the guards.
Mr Teeth felt the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He pulled it out and held it to his ear. It was Pauli, asking for instructions now that things had apparently changed. No part of their plan had included an inpromptu fire-drill after all.
“Wait ‘till we’reall back inside, then carry on as agreed,” He said.
Monday, 13 August 2012
Why You Should Clean Your Keyboard More Often Than You Do
Keybaords are seriously disgusting. I cleaned mine a short while ago and was horrified at the astonishing diversity and sheer volume of crud that came out of it.
I'm sure I never ate THAT much crumbly cake while sitting at the computer.
Anyway, here's a cartoon about it.
Tip: kids' paintbrushes are excellent for the purpose.
I'm sure I never ate THAT much crumbly cake while sitting at the computer.
Anyway, here's a cartoon about it.
Friday, 27 July 2012
The Curious Contingency of Human Happiness
What a difference a day makes.
On Tuesday, I was working on a piece of code for a client, a piece of code that should have been easy.
Should have been.
Thing was: no matter what I did with it, the darn thing Just. Would. Not. Run.
I eyeballed it line by line, I printed it out and scrutinised it line by line (for some reason, printouts seem easier to read than screens) but, for the life of me, I could not see where the problem was.
Now, this kind of thing really bugs me. Being able to cut code is one of the things that I feel proud of and it’s kind of central to my image of myself as a competent techie (OK, I acknowledge the fact that most people wouldn’t WANT that to be part of their core belief about themselves, but there it is). Like it or not, it's a key part of my self-worth.
This, of course, fuelled my mule-stubborn refusal to admit defeat. It was after-hours, so bugging someone else with the problem wasn’t really an option either. I was getting increasingly angry with myself for not being able to fix this stupid bit of code.
After a while, the insistent sound of my own fool head knocking against a brick wall finally woke me up to the fact that I was getting nowhere and, after a long day (getting longer with each resounding thud) the likelihood of a breakthrough was becoming increasingly remote.
So, with a heavy heart, I logged out and went home.
It was not the search for the Higgs Boson.
It was not the search for the cure for cancer
It was just a stupid bit of code to allow some people in a stupid call centre to see potentially challenging cases coming up.
Big Whoop.
But it had beaten me and I felt rubbish.
The people in my head smelt blood in the water: my inner child threw itself on the ground and unleashed an epic tantrum while my inner critic got out his Big Book of Everything that’s Crap About You and began to read it in his foghorn of a voice.
The bad feelings pervaded the the evening at home like a kind of vile octopus ink; sometimes seemingly gone, only to swirl in and darken the water unpredictably the next moment. It was nearly bedtime before the passing of time (assisted by a good session on the ukulele) diluted it.
I know I was ascribing way more importance to the incident than it deserved.
I know there are millions starving and homeless in the world.
I know I should be grateful for the good life that I have (and am, actually, very).
All good reasons to stop whingeing and get on with my life.
But reason doesn’t enter into it.
Next day, as you might guess, the problem could not have been more obvious if it had been waving a red flag whilst riding a white elephant at the head of parade featuring the massed marching bands of the Royal Marines.
And the sun was shining.
Maybe it was because of that, or maybe my inner child and inner critic had simply taken the day off to go to the beach or something, but either way, I felt good all of a sudden.
On Tuesday, I was working on a piece of code for a client, a piece of code that should have been easy.
Should have been.
Thing was: no matter what I did with it, the darn thing Just. Would. Not. Run.
I eyeballed it line by line, I printed it out and scrutinised it line by line (for some reason, printouts seem easier to read than screens) but, for the life of me, I could not see where the problem was.
Now, this kind of thing really bugs me. Being able to cut code is one of the things that I feel proud of and it’s kind of central to my image of myself as a competent techie (OK, I acknowledge the fact that most people wouldn’t WANT that to be part of their core belief about themselves, but there it is). Like it or not, it's a key part of my self-worth.
This, of course, fuelled my mule-stubborn refusal to admit defeat. It was after-hours, so bugging someone else with the problem wasn’t really an option either. I was getting increasingly angry with myself for not being able to fix this stupid bit of code.
After a while, the insistent sound of my own fool head knocking against a brick wall finally woke me up to the fact that I was getting nowhere and, after a long day (getting longer with each resounding thud) the likelihood of a breakthrough was becoming increasingly remote.
So, with a heavy heart, I logged out and went home.
It was not the search for the Higgs Boson.
It was not the search for the cure for cancer
It was just a stupid bit of code to allow some people in a stupid call centre to see potentially challenging cases coming up.
Big Whoop.
But it had beaten me and I felt rubbish.
The people in my head smelt blood in the water: my inner child threw itself on the ground and unleashed an epic tantrum while my inner critic got out his Big Book of Everything that’s Crap About You and began to read it in his foghorn of a voice.
The bad feelings pervaded the the evening at home like a kind of vile octopus ink; sometimes seemingly gone, only to swirl in and darken the water unpredictably the next moment. It was nearly bedtime before the passing of time (assisted by a good session on the ukulele) diluted it.
I know I was ascribing way more importance to the incident than it deserved.
I know there are millions starving and homeless in the world.
I know I should be grateful for the good life that I have (and am, actually, very).
All good reasons to stop whingeing and get on with my life.
But reason doesn’t enter into it.
Next day, as you might guess, the problem could not have been more obvious if it had been waving a red flag whilst riding a white elephant at the head of parade featuring the massed marching bands of the Royal Marines.
And the sun was shining.
Maybe it was because of that, or maybe my inner child and inner critic had simply taken the day off to go to the beach or something, but either way, I felt good all of a sudden.
Friday, 6 July 2012
A New Home in the Sky - Nowt as Queer as Folk
My boss and I have many things in common: same number of legs (two, in case you were worried); we went to the same school/terror training camp, and we both enjoy eating our breakfast granola dry – no milk, no cream, no crème fraiche, no yoghurt nor any other dairy-based contaminant.
This fact in itself is not hugely important, but I needed something to start this entry off with, right?
Anyway, the other day, we just are about to tuck in when we discover ourselves to be spoonless. I duly volunteer to rectify the situation by means of a quick raid on the staff kitchen.
“Don’t get any of the spoons with the blue handles,” says the Boss.
I should have been a bit suspicious at this point, but OK, no spoon with a blue handle it is. He’s da Boss, after all.
Trouble is, I’m totally colour-blind, so I have no idea which of our many and delightfully diverse collection of Spoons Through the Ages have blue handles. So, upon arriving at the kitchen (which has a pool table in it, incidentally) I cleverly decide to duck the issue by bringing back an all-metal spoon. No colour means no BLUE colour, right?
Damn, I'm so sharp it's a wonder I don't cut myself!
I sashay back to the office, smugly bearing a couple of metal spoons as if they are some kind of breakfast-y Olympic Torch.
Pride goeth before a fall…
Boss looks at the proffered utensil and shakes his head.
“But it’s definitely not got a blue handle,” I protest, “You said no blue handle, this has… no blue handle.” I wave it about a bit for emphasis.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “But I have this phobia about all-metal cutlery.”
You see what I have to put up with?
This fact in itself is not hugely important, but I needed something to start this entry off with, right?
Anyway, the other day, we just are about to tuck in when we discover ourselves to be spoonless. I duly volunteer to rectify the situation by means of a quick raid on the staff kitchen.
“Don’t get any of the spoons with the blue handles,” says the Boss.
I should have been a bit suspicious at this point, but OK, no spoon with a blue handle it is. He’s da Boss, after all.
Trouble is, I’m totally colour-blind, so I have no idea which of our many and delightfully diverse collection of Spoons Through the Ages have blue handles. So, upon arriving at the kitchen (which has a pool table in it, incidentally) I cleverly decide to duck the issue by bringing back an all-metal spoon. No colour means no BLUE colour, right?
Damn, I'm so sharp it's a wonder I don't cut myself!
I sashay back to the office, smugly bearing a couple of metal spoons as if they are some kind of breakfast-y Olympic Torch.
Pride goeth before a fall…
Boss looks at the proffered utensil and shakes his head.
“But it’s definitely not got a blue handle,” I protest, “You said no blue handle, this has… no blue handle.” I wave it about a bit for emphasis.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “But I have this phobia about all-metal cutlery.”
You see what I have to put up with?
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
When Cakes Square Off...
I'd like to introduce this cartoon with some intelligent, witty commentary about how I thought it up, but I can't. I was eating cake, that's all.
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Finally - A Harold Episode
If you've not been following this story, you can catch up using the Story So Far link, top right sidebar.
The van rumbled to a halt at the security barrier outside Infinity Recycling. A uniformed guard emerged from the gatehouse and approached. Box nudged the barrel against the van driver's ribs and hissed at him not to try any funny business. The driver wound down the van's window as the guard approached, and held up his id.
The guard examined it briefly, checked the photo against the driver’s face, nodded and went back into the gatehouse. A few moments later, the barrier swung up and the white van rolled into the compound.
'Take us to where you'd go if your mission had been successful,' ordered Box.
The driver nodded and swung the wheel around, piloting the vehicle around to the back of the building. He drew to a halt facing what looked to be a blank wall. Box looked at him quizzically. the man shrugged and pressed a button on the van's key fob.
Ahead of them, two sections of the wall slid apart, revealing a well-lit tunnel within.
'Wow, that was certainly well disguised,' murmured India from the back of the van. The vehicle jolted into motion once more and they headed into the tunnel which curved away to the right and sharply downwards.
Prada was pacing the room once more.
“It’ll be light soon,” she said to no-one in particular.
No-one bothered to answer her. Mercury was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, while Othello stared out of the window. A few triangular sandwich packets littered the long conference table, along with a few cans of drink.
Since a silent guard had dropped off the food and drink, they had been left to themselves. Prada sighed and moved to stand next to Othello at the window. There wasn’t much to see; the window looked out into an internal courtyard which boasted a patch of grass, some planting and a few seats – presumably for the Infinity staff members to take breaks.
“I can’t help feeling we should be doing more,” she continued.
“Like what?” asked Othello. “We can’t get out, we can’t contact anyone. Best we wait it out for now and see what happens.”
Prada sighed and turned to face into the room once more. Out or boredom, she let her eyes wander where they would, although she didn’t expect to see anything she hadn’t seen before: long, polished conference table; squeaky leather conference chairs, cupboards with nothing in them. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. It was the usual suspended affair made up of tiles interspersed with long fluorescent light fittings.
“Could we get out through there?” she wondered aloud.
Othello turned to see what she was looking at.
“Doubt it,” he said, “The space above isn’t that big and I don’t think the structure would bear any of our weight.”
“Pity,” Prada sighed. Then she drew in a quick breath, before speaking in a low voice. “What about that?”
She pointed at the centre of the ceiling where a small round smoke detector protruded from the middle of a tile.
“Interesting,” agreed Othello, also in a low voice “but unless you’ve got some boy scouts to rub together…”
“I just might have,” grinned Prada.
She grabbed her jacket from where it hung on the back of one of the chairs and began ferreting in one of the pockets.
“A-ha!” she whispered, triumphantly, holding up a small, flat square of folded cardboard.
“Who knew a hole in one’s pocket could actually be useful?”
Othello stepped over to get a better view as Prada opened out the cardboard.
“Thank you, Crazy Jake’s Bar and Grill,” she breathed.
Inside the cardboard there were two matches
They left their erstwhile chauffeur gagged and bound in the rear of the van. There was a solid-looking door set in one wall of the basement car park and Mr Teeth and Box headed over to it. A few steps behind them, Harold and India followed.
A quick swipe of the Infinity goon’s id card resulted in a most satisfying clunk as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged. Box pushed the door open to reveal an empty, brightly-lit hallway leading away into the building’s interior.
“Looks clear enough,” grunted Mr Teeth.
He went through the door, followed by the others. Behind them, the door swung closed on its spring, locking with a click. Box glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes,” he said quietly.
Mr Teeth grunted acknowledgement.
The little party made its way along the hallway, Mr Teeth and Box leading, followed by an invisible India and Harold. They soon reached an intersection of corridors. There was nothing much to indicate the best way for them to go to find Mercury and the others. The goon hadn’t known – or had pretended not to know – where they would have been taken.
“There are some stairs through those doors up ahead,” said Box, indicating a set of double doors, above which someone had helpfully placed an emergency sign.
They began trotting down the corridor towards the stairwell.
Just as Box reached out his hand to push open the double doors, the air was split by the wail of a klaxon.
“Too early!” yelled Box above the racket. “Go to plan B!”
The van rumbled to a halt at the security barrier outside Infinity Recycling. A uniformed guard emerged from the gatehouse and approached. Box nudged the barrel against the van driver's ribs and hissed at him not to try any funny business. The driver wound down the van's window as the guard approached, and held up his id.
The guard examined it briefly, checked the photo against the driver’s face, nodded and went back into the gatehouse. A few moments later, the barrier swung up and the white van rolled into the compound.
'Take us to where you'd go if your mission had been successful,' ordered Box.
The driver nodded and swung the wheel around, piloting the vehicle around to the back of the building. He drew to a halt facing what looked to be a blank wall. Box looked at him quizzically. the man shrugged and pressed a button on the van's key fob.
Ahead of them, two sections of the wall slid apart, revealing a well-lit tunnel within.
'Wow, that was certainly well disguised,' murmured India from the back of the van. The vehicle jolted into motion once more and they headed into the tunnel which curved away to the right and sharply downwards.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Prada was pacing the room once more.
“It’ll be light soon,” she said to no-one in particular.
No-one bothered to answer her. Mercury was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, while Othello stared out of the window. A few triangular sandwich packets littered the long conference table, along with a few cans of drink.
Since a silent guard had dropped off the food and drink, they had been left to themselves. Prada sighed and moved to stand next to Othello at the window. There wasn’t much to see; the window looked out into an internal courtyard which boasted a patch of grass, some planting and a few seats – presumably for the Infinity staff members to take breaks.
“I can’t help feeling we should be doing more,” she continued.
“Like what?” asked Othello. “We can’t get out, we can’t contact anyone. Best we wait it out for now and see what happens.”
Prada sighed and turned to face into the room once more. Out or boredom, she let her eyes wander where they would, although she didn’t expect to see anything she hadn’t seen before: long, polished conference table; squeaky leather conference chairs, cupboards with nothing in them. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. It was the usual suspended affair made up of tiles interspersed with long fluorescent light fittings.
“Could we get out through there?” she wondered aloud.
Othello turned to see what she was looking at.
“Doubt it,” he said, “The space above isn’t that big and I don’t think the structure would bear any of our weight.”
“Pity,” Prada sighed. Then she drew in a quick breath, before speaking in a low voice. “What about that?”
She pointed at the centre of the ceiling where a small round smoke detector protruded from the middle of a tile.
“Interesting,” agreed Othello, also in a low voice “but unless you’ve got some boy scouts to rub together…”
“I just might have,” grinned Prada.
She grabbed her jacket from where it hung on the back of one of the chairs and began ferreting in one of the pockets.
“A-ha!” she whispered, triumphantly, holding up a small, flat square of folded cardboard.
“Who knew a hole in one’s pocket could actually be useful?”
Othello stepped over to get a better view as Prada opened out the cardboard.
“Thank you, Crazy Jake’s Bar and Grill,” she breathed.
Inside the cardboard there were two matches
-0-0-0-0-0-
They left their erstwhile chauffeur gagged and bound in the rear of the van. There was a solid-looking door set in one wall of the basement car park and Mr Teeth and Box headed over to it. A few steps behind them, Harold and India followed.
A quick swipe of the Infinity goon’s id card resulted in a most satisfying clunk as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged. Box pushed the door open to reveal an empty, brightly-lit hallway leading away into the building’s interior.
“Looks clear enough,” grunted Mr Teeth.
He went through the door, followed by the others. Behind them, the door swung closed on its spring, locking with a click. Box glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes,” he said quietly.
Mr Teeth grunted acknowledgement.
The little party made its way along the hallway, Mr Teeth and Box leading, followed by an invisible India and Harold. They soon reached an intersection of corridors. There was nothing much to indicate the best way for them to go to find Mercury and the others. The goon hadn’t known – or had pretended not to know – where they would have been taken.
“There are some stairs through those doors up ahead,” said Box, indicating a set of double doors, above which someone had helpfully placed an emergency sign.
They began trotting down the corridor towards the stairwell.
Just as Box reached out his hand to push open the double doors, the air was split by the wail of a klaxon.
“Too early!” yelled Box above the racket. “Go to plan B!”
Thursday, 31 May 2012
I can do THIS with my thumb
This is the text (more or less) of a speech I gave last night at Toastmasters.
It was an ordinary day. I woke up late with a massive hangover, dashed to work, ducked into the ladies to tidy my hair and found my comb was missing.
Now, there are two things about that morning - one strange and one annoying.
The strange thing was that I had a hangover. True, I had been at a works party the previous night – old Professor Farnsworth’s leaving do - but I was sure I'd only drunk lemon and lime all night. My memories were strangely hazy though.
The annoying thing was that my comb was missing. I was annoyed about that because I hate losing things generally and it had been a gift from an old friend.
Anyway, it couldn’t be helped, so I smoothed my hair as best I could, and got on with my day.
This was my first job. I was a lab assistant at the prestigious Wissenschaftler Institute for Genetic Research, not far from here.
Then a few days later, my supervisor told me to take Professor Wissenshaftler his afternoon tea. This was exciting and scary as I hadn’t met him before.
I knocked politely, entered and set down the tray. As I did so, I noticed something sticking out from a pile of papers on his desk.
My Comb!
He’d. Got. My. Comb.
I wanted to ask him about it, but I was very young, very nervous and he was a very intimating figure –a sort of dyspeptic Albert Einstein with the kind of hairstyle you get by sticking your fingers in a plug socket.
So I didn’t dare.
I decided to wait until everyone had gone home and then get it back.
Eventually the time came. I peeped out and sure enough all was deserted, dark and silent. I crept to the professor’s office. Luckily, it wasn’t locked and I was soon once more in possession of my precious comb.
I turned and hurried back out.
It could have been the dark, it could have been my unfamiliarity with the place or even my giddy euphoria at getting the comb back, but I must have gone through the wrong door from the office because I now found myself in a different lab entirely.
I turned round to retrace my steps, but the door had clicked shut behind me and for some reason didn’t open from this side.
In the dimness, I could just make out a door and window at the other end of the room. I hurried over. In case it was a dead end I risked a quick peep through the window to see what lay beyond.
And nearly fell over backwards when a pale face suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass.
I gasped in shock!
It wasn’t just a face it, was MY face!
Then I laughed. The “window” was obviously a mirror, of course. It’s your own reflection, idiot! I told myself. Phew!
When my “reflection” started banging on the glass and shouting Get me out of here, I almost fainted. I rushed to the door and unbolted it.
My double emerged.
She really was just like me. If you’re born a twin you’re probably used to seeing your double, but suddenly to become a twin is eerie to say the least.
She really was my double - even wearing the same green scrubs that we were obliged to wear in the lab.
We had just a few moments to ponder this before all of sudden the lights came on.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” came an angry voice from the doorway behind me. It was professor W, and he had a gun pointed at us.
“I got lost,“ I said lamely.
“Well now you have to die!”
“What?” I cried, “I was just getting my comb back. Can’t you just give me a written warning or something?”
“No, you have discovered my illegal secret human cloning experiment”. He readied the gun.
“Wish I’d not bothered about that blasted comb now.” I said.
“What?” he said.
“The comb I bet you stole from me to get my DNA – I saw it on your desk and was just trying to get it back.”
“You imbecile!” he laughed. “I didn’t take your comb, you dropped it at Farnsworth’s leaving do, I kept meaning to give it back to you.”
“Oh”
“Besides, I needed more than a few stupid hairs. I drugged your drinks at the leaving party, took the samples I needed then popped you back into bed at your house, none the wiser. Now stick out your right thumbs!”
“Why?” we cried in unison.
“Because I only need the original one of you to continue the experiment and I can spot the clone by the extra thumb joint I gave it.”
“But you must know which is which,” I said, “I’m the original, the one that’s been living out in the world, she’s the clone, surely!”
“Not necessarily,” said the prof. “I had a few drinkies at that party myself and can’t remember which of you I kept and which I took back home. The clone has an extra thumb joint. Now stick em out!”
We extended our trembling thumbs and he looked at them for a moment before raising the gun.
I snatched up a nearby Bunsen burner and hurled it at his head as he fired.
The shot went wild and smashed into a bunch of chemical jars which promptly exploded. There was a blinding flash and a thunderous roar. I felt myself flung across the room and everything went black.
I woke up in hospital with concussion and no major injuries other than a crushed right hand. A concret beam had fallen on it apparently. The surgeons fixed it up almost perfectly – apart from the thumb.
They said the explosion at the lab was a gas leak and even though the ruins were carefully searched, no trace of the professor or my twin was ever found.
So, am I the original me – with a broken thumb?
Or am I a clone – complete with the professor’s modification?
Even I’m not sure now.
All I can say is:
I can do THIS with my thumb.
(reveal strangely bendy thumb)
END
This is my actual thumb and it does bend back in an odd way. It does this because as a child I used to make a kind of bridge with my hand on the table and lean my head on it when reading. Over the years of pressing down, the joint acquired a larger range of movement.
That's not as interesting though.
What all this does demonstrate I think, is that you can make a story out of just about anything.
It was an ordinary day. I woke up late with a massive hangover, dashed to work, ducked into the ladies to tidy my hair and found my comb was missing.
Now, there are two things about that morning - one strange and one annoying.
The strange thing was that I had a hangover. True, I had been at a works party the previous night – old Professor Farnsworth’s leaving do - but I was sure I'd only drunk lemon and lime all night. My memories were strangely hazy though.
The annoying thing was that my comb was missing. I was annoyed about that because I hate losing things generally and it had been a gift from an old friend.
Anyway, it couldn’t be helped, so I smoothed my hair as best I could, and got on with my day.
This was my first job. I was a lab assistant at the prestigious Wissenschaftler Institute for Genetic Research, not far from here.
Then a few days later, my supervisor told me to take Professor Wissenshaftler his afternoon tea. This was exciting and scary as I hadn’t met him before.
I knocked politely, entered and set down the tray. As I did so, I noticed something sticking out from a pile of papers on his desk.
My Comb!
He’d. Got. My. Comb.
I wanted to ask him about it, but I was very young, very nervous and he was a very intimating figure –a sort of dyspeptic Albert Einstein with the kind of hairstyle you get by sticking your fingers in a plug socket.
So I didn’t dare.
I decided to wait until everyone had gone home and then get it back.
Eventually the time came. I peeped out and sure enough all was deserted, dark and silent. I crept to the professor’s office. Luckily, it wasn’t locked and I was soon once more in possession of my precious comb.
I turned and hurried back out.
It could have been the dark, it could have been my unfamiliarity with the place or even my giddy euphoria at getting the comb back, but I must have gone through the wrong door from the office because I now found myself in a different lab entirely.
I turned round to retrace my steps, but the door had clicked shut behind me and for some reason didn’t open from this side.
In the dimness, I could just make out a door and window at the other end of the room. I hurried over. In case it was a dead end I risked a quick peep through the window to see what lay beyond.
And nearly fell over backwards when a pale face suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass.
I gasped in shock!
It wasn’t just a face it, was MY face!
Then I laughed. The “window” was obviously a mirror, of course. It’s your own reflection, idiot! I told myself. Phew!
When my “reflection” started banging on the glass and shouting Get me out of here, I almost fainted. I rushed to the door and unbolted it.
My double emerged.
She really was just like me. If you’re born a twin you’re probably used to seeing your double, but suddenly to become a twin is eerie to say the least.
She really was my double - even wearing the same green scrubs that we were obliged to wear in the lab.
We had just a few moments to ponder this before all of sudden the lights came on.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” came an angry voice from the doorway behind me. It was professor W, and he had a gun pointed at us.
“I got lost,“ I said lamely.
“Well now you have to die!”
“What?” I cried, “I was just getting my comb back. Can’t you just give me a written warning or something?”
“No, you have discovered my illegal secret human cloning experiment”. He readied the gun.
“Wish I’d not bothered about that blasted comb now.” I said.
“What?” he said.
“The comb I bet you stole from me to get my DNA – I saw it on your desk and was just trying to get it back.”
“You imbecile!” he laughed. “I didn’t take your comb, you dropped it at Farnsworth’s leaving do, I kept meaning to give it back to you.”
“Oh”
“Besides, I needed more than a few stupid hairs. I drugged your drinks at the leaving party, took the samples I needed then popped you back into bed at your house, none the wiser. Now stick out your right thumbs!”
“Why?” we cried in unison.
“Because I only need the original one of you to continue the experiment and I can spot the clone by the extra thumb joint I gave it.”
“But you must know which is which,” I said, “I’m the original, the one that’s been living out in the world, she’s the clone, surely!”
“Not necessarily,” said the prof. “I had a few drinkies at that party myself and can’t remember which of you I kept and which I took back home. The clone has an extra thumb joint. Now stick em out!”
We extended our trembling thumbs and he looked at them for a moment before raising the gun.
I snatched up a nearby Bunsen burner and hurled it at his head as he fired.
The shot went wild and smashed into a bunch of chemical jars which promptly exploded. There was a blinding flash and a thunderous roar. I felt myself flung across the room and everything went black.
I woke up in hospital with concussion and no major injuries other than a crushed right hand. A concret beam had fallen on it apparently. The surgeons fixed it up almost perfectly – apart from the thumb.
They said the explosion at the lab was a gas leak and even though the ruins were carefully searched, no trace of the professor or my twin was ever found.
So, am I the original me – with a broken thumb?
Or am I a clone – complete with the professor’s modification?
Even I’m not sure now.
All I can say is:
I can do THIS with my thumb.
(reveal strangely bendy thumb)
END
This is my actual thumb and it does bend back in an odd way. It does this because as a child I used to make a kind of bridge with my hand on the table and lean my head on it when reading. Over the years of pressing down, the joint acquired a larger range of movement.
That's not as interesting though.
What all this does demonstrate I think, is that you can make a story out of just about anything.
Monday, 21 May 2012
A Little Optimism
Not to try and be too diabetes-inducingly sweet or anything, but it strikes me that cats are a lot happier than people most of the time.
Jus' sayin'.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Gob-Stopper
This came out of nowhere this morning.
Gob-Stopper
Gob-Stopper
The thought of leaving here,
Leaving you,
Leaving this life,
Rolls around my head.
Like a brand-new gob-stopper.
It holds the promise of long sweetness.
It has not yet lost its bright colour.
But it’s still too big to swallow.
Maybe I’ll just suck on it for a while.
Feel it click against my teeth,
And when it’s small enough.
It’ll go down easy.
Not sure what our American friends call gob-stoppers. They're a big ball of hard candy you suck on, they change colour as you suck. They have a kind of aniseed-y flavour, usually.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Blessed Are the Meek
Recently, I was asked to write a short meditation on one of the Beatitudes. This was the best I could do, cynic that I am.
Blessed Are the Meek
Blessed Are the Meek
Blessed, you say.
Blessed?
Blessed, because I stand aside while others get their way?
Blessed, because I put their needs first?
Blessed, because I can’t say ‘no’?
Blessed, because I don’t blow my own trumpet
Even though I do have a few good tunes?
Blessed are the doormats, for they shall be trodden on.
I just hope the Earth is worth it.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
A New Home in the Sky - So THAT's why he gets the big bucks!
Le Boss sashays into the office and up to my desk.
“Can you do me a favour,” he asks. Tiny tinkling alarm bells begin to sound in the empty, echoing recesses of my mind.
“Maybe,” I say as guardedly as if I were surrounded by a 10-foot-tall barbed-wire fence, a dozen machine gun nests and a regiment of Gurkhas. “What is it?”
“Can you take my place on a conference call tomorrow morning?”
“Probably, what’s it about?”
“It’s to do with the Honest Bob the Plumbers contract.” Now, we do a managed service thing for HBtP: call centre, website, etc. This is not my area at all; I only know from Klueless Support; I talk to machines all day, not people.
“But I don’t know anything about that,” I point out.
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “Just go on the call and listen to what everyone’s saying. You won’t need to do or say anything or make any decisions.”
I make a “what-the-flip?” face at him.
“It’s what I always do.” He says, and wanders off to find the kettle or engage in some other similarly critical, high-flying activity..
This is why he's paid more than me, obviously.
“Can you do me a favour,” he asks. Tiny tinkling alarm bells begin to sound in the empty, echoing recesses of my mind.
“Maybe,” I say as guardedly as if I were surrounded by a 10-foot-tall barbed-wire fence, a dozen machine gun nests and a regiment of Gurkhas. “What is it?”
“Can you take my place on a conference call tomorrow morning?”
“Probably, what’s it about?”
“It’s to do with the Honest Bob the Plumbers contract.” Now, we do a managed service thing for HBtP: call centre, website, etc. This is not my area at all; I only know from Klueless Support; I talk to machines all day, not people.
“But I don’t know anything about that,” I point out.
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “Just go on the call and listen to what everyone’s saying. You won’t need to do or say anything or make any decisions.”
I make a “what-the-flip?” face at him.
“It’s what I always do.” He says, and wanders off to find the kettle or engage in some other similarly critical, high-flying activity..
This is why he's paid more than me, obviously.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
More Magnifier Mumblings
I have written before about a software magnifier for the computer screen (you can read the piece here, if you so wish).
I thought at the time that the open source magnifier I had found was the bee’s knees, and, in fact, it was a very useful tool. As I continued to use it, however, I began to notice a few annoying quirks. Sometimes, for example, the movement of the’lens’ around the screen would become very jerky, which was very distracting. Also, the image quality degraded somewhat as the magnification increased (not hugely surprising, but not exactly desirable either).
So I more or less stopped using it.
Recently, I had occasion to buy a new mouse, as my old one kept acting like it was possessed by the devil, jumping around the screen on its own and so on.
I duly dispatched the Other Half to the local mouse emporium and he came back with a Microsoft mouse – a Wireless Mobile Mouse 3500 – to be precise.
Reading though the quick-start guide that came with it, I noticed that you could configure the scroll wheel so that if you clicked it, it invoked a magnifier. Sounded good, but I was never impressed with the magnifier that comes with Windows because it just gives you a fixed window which does not move around the screen with the mouse, which was the thing I wanted. I thought I'd try it out anyway, just in case.
Wow!
The magnifier (presumably a doctored version of the actual Windows one, but which moves around the screen with the mouse) is brilliant.
The image quality is excellent, and the movement so far has been flawlessly silky-smooth every time. You can toggle the magnifier off and on just by clicking the scroll wheel. With the open source one, you have to press CTRL-ALT-G on the keyboard to achieve the same effect.
You can also vary the size of the ‘lens’ by holding down the scroll wheel for a short time, whereupon you can drag the window border to the size you desire. A larger 'lens' appears to give a larger magnification too (or it could just be my imagination).
This handy functionality is actually provided by the Microsoft Intellipoint mouse driver and I imagine anyone using this driver, regardless of the type of mouse, could configure their mouse to make use of it. I did try to see if I could achieve the same effect with a non-iltellipoint driver, but it did not work.
OK, I appreciate that screen magnification is probably of only tangential interest to most people but, if you’re getting on a bit and find reading the screen more of a struggle than you used to, this represents a fairly low-cost (my mouse was less than £30) visual aid.
I thought at the time that the open source magnifier I had found was the bee’s knees, and, in fact, it was a very useful tool. As I continued to use it, however, I began to notice a few annoying quirks. Sometimes, for example, the movement of the’lens’ around the screen would become very jerky, which was very distracting. Also, the image quality degraded somewhat as the magnification increased (not hugely surprising, but not exactly desirable either).
So I more or less stopped using it.
Recently, I had occasion to buy a new mouse, as my old one kept acting like it was possessed by the devil, jumping around the screen on its own and so on.
I duly dispatched the Other Half to the local mouse emporium and he came back with a Microsoft mouse – a Wireless Mobile Mouse 3500 – to be precise.
Reading though the quick-start guide that came with it, I noticed that you could configure the scroll wheel so that if you clicked it, it invoked a magnifier. Sounded good, but I was never impressed with the magnifier that comes with Windows because it just gives you a fixed window which does not move around the screen with the mouse, which was the thing I wanted. I thought I'd try it out anyway, just in case.
Wow!
The magnifier (presumably a doctored version of the actual Windows one, but which moves around the screen with the mouse) is brilliant.
The image quality is excellent, and the movement so far has been flawlessly silky-smooth every time. You can toggle the magnifier off and on just by clicking the scroll wheel. With the open source one, you have to press CTRL-ALT-G on the keyboard to achieve the same effect.
You can also vary the size of the ‘lens’ by holding down the scroll wheel for a short time, whereupon you can drag the window border to the size you desire. A larger 'lens' appears to give a larger magnification too (or it could just be my imagination).
This handy functionality is actually provided by the Microsoft Intellipoint mouse driver and I imagine anyone using this driver, regardless of the type of mouse, could configure their mouse to make use of it. I did try to see if I could achieve the same effect with a non-iltellipoint driver, but it did not work.
OK, I appreciate that screen magnification is probably of only tangential interest to most people but, if you’re getting on a bit and find reading the screen more of a struggle than you used to, this represents a fairly low-cost (my mouse was less than £30) visual aid.
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