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
Showing posts with label A New Home in the Sky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A New Home in the Sky. Show all posts
Monday, 29 April 2013
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?
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.
Thursday, 17 November 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Reward and Recognition
The latest feel-good initiative to slither out of the murky depths of the last Senior Management Team’s corporate jolly Strategic Workshop is the Applause system.
This is a wizard wheeze where you may nominate a co-worker for some outstanding bit of work, for being extra helpful or for just not screwing up too much this month.
You log into the special dedicated Applause portal and make your nomination, which has to be tied in with one of the company’s core values (leadership, customer service, adding value, ass-kissing, etc.) and you have to write a citation, explaining just why you think Nerdy Unix Guy or Ugly But Surprisingly Competent Incident Manager should receive an award.
You must be as specific as possible.
You must give dates, times, projects, client names, etc.
You have 140 characters.
Now, if by some superhuman act of précis (and text-speak is frowned upon) you manage to convey a flavour of your colleague’s incandescent brilliance, a committee of managers will scrutinise your effort and decide if it has merit.
Pulling a dirty great sword out of a stone? Easy-peasy!
Solving the riddle of perpetual motion? Pah!
Explaining why 'I’m a Celebrity' is still on our TV screens? OK, I’ll give you that one, that's inexplicable.
Persuading a group of people whose prime motivation is to keep costs down to give something away for free? Now, that’s hard!
If, by any chance, your Paen to That Guy in Networks should be found worthy, the nominated co-worker will receive a number of Applause points.
Applause points can be spent on things e.g. 10,000 points will get you a paperclip or some such, 20,000 will get you a pen, that kind of thing.
You have to get tons of these points to get anything truly worthwhile.
What’s a typical award, I hear you ask?
2,500 points.
You’d probably have to work for the company for a hundred years (and kiss a LOT of bottom) to amass a decent numberof points – by which time, the scheme will almost certainly have been discontinued.
But never mind, even if you can’t manage to squeeze a few measly points out of the system, you can always send your beloved co-worker an Applause e-card instead!
Yes, that’ll make them feel loved – after all, it’s not about the money, is it?
You can choose from a range of e-cards bearing anodyne and instantly forgettable images of implausibly attractive office workers laughing gaily into each other’s faces as they give presentations, or work on their computers. You may personalise it with a message of your own (you can use more than 140 characters for this if you like, it's not like it will cost anything).
By the way, it has been decided that there are to be no salary reviews this financial year.
Feel the love.
This is a wizard wheeze where you may nominate a co-worker for some outstanding bit of work, for being extra helpful or for just not screwing up too much this month.
You log into the special dedicated Applause portal and make your nomination, which has to be tied in with one of the company’s core values (leadership, customer service, adding value, ass-kissing, etc.) and you have to write a citation, explaining just why you think Nerdy Unix Guy or Ugly But Surprisingly Competent Incident Manager should receive an award.
You must be as specific as possible.
You must give dates, times, projects, client names, etc.
You have 140 characters.
Now, if by some superhuman act of précis (and text-speak is frowned upon) you manage to convey a flavour of your colleague’s incandescent brilliance, a committee of managers will scrutinise your effort and decide if it has merit.
Pulling a dirty great sword out of a stone? Easy-peasy!
Solving the riddle of perpetual motion? Pah!
Explaining why 'I’m a Celebrity' is still on our TV screens? OK, I’ll give you that one, that's inexplicable.
Persuading a group of people whose prime motivation is to keep costs down to give something away for free? Now, that’s hard!
If, by any chance, your Paen to That Guy in Networks should be found worthy, the nominated co-worker will receive a number of Applause points.
Applause points can be spent on things e.g. 10,000 points will get you a paperclip or some such, 20,000 will get you a pen, that kind of thing.
You have to get tons of these points to get anything truly worthwhile.
What’s a typical award, I hear you ask?
2,500 points.
You’d probably have to work for the company for a hundred years (and kiss a LOT of bottom) to amass a decent numberof points – by which time, the scheme will almost certainly have been discontinued.
But never mind, even if you can’t manage to squeeze a few measly points out of the system, you can always send your beloved co-worker an Applause e-card instead!
Yes, that’ll make them feel loved – after all, it’s not about the money, is it?
You can choose from a range of e-cards bearing anodyne and instantly forgettable images of implausibly attractive office workers laughing gaily into each other’s faces as they give presentations, or work on their computers. You may personalise it with a message of your own (you can use more than 140 characters for this if you like, it's not like it will cost anything).
By the way, it has been decided that there are to be no salary reviews this financial year.
Feel the love.
Friday, 28 October 2011
A New Home in the Sky - A Simple Question
It’s a quiet day here at Klueless Support, the sand falling silently and tranquilly through the hourglass, until a soft ping announces the arrival of an email.
Hi
The report I ran today is showing the same figures as yesterday. This is wrong as the numbers are always different. Please can you fix it.
Regards
A User
Now I like a challenge, but there really is precious little to go on here, so there follows an email trail, summarised below:
Me: Which report is it that’s incorrect?
User: The Open Calls report
Me: OK, where in Klueless is that, is it in the public folders or your personal folder? Do you extract it yourself or get it by email? (Note: there are literally hundreds of reports, some of which the users create themselves. With the best will in the world, we can’t know all of them.)
User: As it stands I’m asked to run a report for the Service Desk that generates data pulled from Klueless. I’ve attached a list of reports that get sent to me if that’s any help? (6 attachments)
Me: So, is it one of the sent ones that’s not showing refreshed figures for today?
User: Thanks for getting back to me. The 2 spreadsheets attached show the same data sent for two different days. We know this is a fault as no two days will be the same as calls get opened and closed continually. (2 attachments)
Me: Yes, but I need to know the name and location of the actual report that’s wrong.
Some time goes by and I do some digging around on my own, eventually managing to locate a scheduled job that automatically generates a report called Open Calls. I see one bit of it has failed, so re-run that. This does not, however, explain why today’s and yesterday’s figures are the same.
Out of boredom, I open the two spreadsheets that the user claims contain identical data, just in case.
They do not contain identical data – not even close.
Puzzled, I email the user and ask him to check again and, lo and behold, it turns out he’s got confused; the two spreadsheets ARE different, but he is sure they were the same earlier.
Hmmmm. Yes, maybe the little internet pixies altered them or something.
This is a not untypical exchange between us and our beloved user community, more's the pity. I have to say our lives would be easier if users:
- did not assume we in support have the same knowlege of their reports (or anything else) as they do
- gave us clear information about where they got the report in the first place
- double-checked before firing off an email
We in support are users of other systems, with their own support teams, so this is probably good advice for us too.
Friday, 16 September 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Project Wideawake
There is a building near to our new home which has us fascinated.
It is not remarkable in its own right, being as it is, a typical modern office construction a couple of floors tall.
No, what gets us is the ridiculously high security measures it enjoys compared to all the other buildings on the site. We’re talking double barriers for cars, where the second one only opens when the first one has closed behind you, and 10-foot high fences - which are actually electrified.
It has its own independent power supply.
There is no company branding on the building anywhere. The cars visible in its car park are all of good make and recent manufacture, so there is clearly money here. But what can it be?
Theories abound, of course, ranging from the mundane it’s a data centre for some big corporation to the more fanciful it’s a secret government installation to the downright silly the building is a hollow shell which splits apart and open up to allow the launch of missiles a-la Bond villain.
I must say that while the last theory is probably the least probable, what better place to hide out if you are a super-villain than an ordinary business park?
Private Island? Too obvious.
Insides of extinct volcanoes? Puh-lease! And too visible on Googe Earth.
Nobody suspects a boringly anonymous building amongst a ton of other such buildings.
Set your minds at ease though, people, we at NHitS will be keeping a close watch and are prepared to alert the authorities at the first sign of megalomaniac geniuses attempting world domination.
It is not remarkable in its own right, being as it is, a typical modern office construction a couple of floors tall.
No, what gets us is the ridiculously high security measures it enjoys compared to all the other buildings on the site. We’re talking double barriers for cars, where the second one only opens when the first one has closed behind you, and 10-foot high fences - which are actually electrified.
It has its own independent power supply.
There is no company branding on the building anywhere. The cars visible in its car park are all of good make and recent manufacture, so there is clearly money here. But what can it be?
Theories abound, of course, ranging from the mundane it’s a data centre for some big corporation to the more fanciful it’s a secret government installation to the downright silly the building is a hollow shell which splits apart and open up to allow the launch of missiles a-la Bond villain.
I must say that while the last theory is probably the least probable, what better place to hide out if you are a super-villain than an ordinary business park?
Private Island? Too obvious.
Insides of extinct volcanoes? Puh-lease! And too visible on Googe Earth.
Nobody suspects a boringly anonymous building amongst a ton of other such buildings.
Set your minds at ease though, people, we at NHitS will be keeping a close watch and are prepared to alert the authorities at the first sign of megalomaniac geniuses attempting world domination.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Moving Day II
Well, it’s finally happened: the slum-lords and rackrents had decided that we’re outta here. Throwback Towers is to be our home no longer.
Soon the bulldozers will rumble in…
It’s an emotional day for us as we dismantle the Wall of Weird, which has presided over our daily doings this last year.
Down comes the “What Would Paddington Do?” poster that we made ourselves. Paddington Bear has been our faithful moral compass: we've discovered almost any conumdrum can be solves with reference to marmalade sandwiches.
Down come the gnomic sayings of Lisa T.
Last but not least, down comes retro-clock. This is a clock so hideously tacky, so plasticy-nasty, so devoid of any redeeming aesthetic charm that its natural and spiritual home in the world is, of course, with us, its human analogues.
All the chairs have been rounded up and herded into the Purple Zone. The way some of them are clustered together is decidedly conspiratorial, like they’re plotting something. Mind you, it wouldn’t be the first time for some of these chairs.
They have form.
They look innocent enough, and they are perfectly comfy to sit in. The have a nice tall back just right for leaning back against. The unwary soul that does this will be ok for a while, but lean back just a little bit more, just a leetle beet… and WHAM! The chair back will suddenly give way and dump the hapless victim on his head. These chairs used to hang around near open seventh-floor windows, waiting. Waiting and hoping…
I wonder what will become of them. I wonder if we should pin warnings on them or something. I’m not brave enough to do it though, there are about thirty of them and they seem to be eying me suspiciously as I go past.
I empty out the contents of my desk drawers, which is remarkable only for the sheer mundanity of it all: pens, pencils, erasers, pound shop earpiece and microphone for teleconferencing, strangely attractive Christmas tree decoration (not sure why I’m keeping this, to be honest).
And now it’s time to go.
Goodbye Wall of Weird.
Goodbye Purple Zone.
Goodbye staircase challenge (your 12 floors were no match for us in the end).
Goodbye rats (the new place will be quieter and no need for a baseball bat by the desk).
Goodbye Spare Change Guy – hope it all works out for you in the end.
Goodbye Pound Shop and 99p Store.
We’ve seen the new place. It’s clean and new. It doesn’t smell. Acres of desk space await. There’s a room with leather sofas in for our use. The kitchen is devoid of rats and roaches. There’s a big fridge in there with cans of drink in it. There are baskets of fruit and chocolate just lying about the place.
But it won’t be the same.
Soon the bulldozers will rumble in…
It’s an emotional day for us as we dismantle the Wall of Weird, which has presided over our daily doings this last year.
Down comes the “What Would Paddington Do?” poster that we made ourselves. Paddington Bear has been our faithful moral compass: we've discovered almost any conumdrum can be solves with reference to marmalade sandwiches.
Down come the gnomic sayings of Lisa T.
Last but not least, down comes retro-clock. This is a clock so hideously tacky, so plasticy-nasty, so devoid of any redeeming aesthetic charm that its natural and spiritual home in the world is, of course, with us, its human analogues.
All the chairs have been rounded up and herded into the Purple Zone. The way some of them are clustered together is decidedly conspiratorial, like they’re plotting something. Mind you, it wouldn’t be the first time for some of these chairs.
They have form.
They look innocent enough, and they are perfectly comfy to sit in. The have a nice tall back just right for leaning back against. The unwary soul that does this will be ok for a while, but lean back just a little bit more, just a leetle beet… and WHAM! The chair back will suddenly give way and dump the hapless victim on his head. These chairs used to hang around near open seventh-floor windows, waiting. Waiting and hoping…
I wonder what will become of them. I wonder if we should pin warnings on them or something. I’m not brave enough to do it though, there are about thirty of them and they seem to be eying me suspiciously as I go past.
I empty out the contents of my desk drawers, which is remarkable only for the sheer mundanity of it all: pens, pencils, erasers, pound shop earpiece and microphone for teleconferencing, strangely attractive Christmas tree decoration (not sure why I’m keeping this, to be honest).
And now it’s time to go.
Goodbye Wall of Weird.
Goodbye Purple Zone.
Goodbye staircase challenge (your 12 floors were no match for us in the end).
Goodbye rats (the new place will be quieter and no need for a baseball bat by the desk).
Goodbye Spare Change Guy – hope it all works out for you in the end.
Goodbye Pound Shop and 99p Store.
We’ve seen the new place. It’s clean and new. It doesn’t smell. Acres of desk space await. There’s a room with leather sofas in for our use. The kitchen is devoid of rats and roaches. There’s a big fridge in there with cans of drink in it. There are baskets of fruit and chocolate just lying about the place.
But it won’t be the same.
Friday, 3 June 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Bricks Without Straw
Boss comes in, his left ear glowing from an hour-long conference-call.
“New job for us,” he announces, “Remember we migrated all that data out of that old database ages ago?”
We nod and mumble, not wanting to get drawn into that particular slough of despond again.
“Well, the client reckons we’ve done it wrong and they want us to check all the data for discrepancies.”
Groan. How tedious. The original work was done by a freelancer who has since retired to the Bahamas on the money we paid him.
“OK,” I sigh, “Where’s the old database hosted?”
It’s not there anymore.” Replies Boss, “They’ve deleted it.”
“Well I like a challenge. “ I quip, “How are we to communicate with this deceased database then? Clairvoyance? Ouija board - could take a while and we don't have any tumblers.”
The unexpectedly rubber edge of my rapier wit bounces harmlessly off Boss’s icy glare. “There’s a backup of it that just needs restoring.”
“OK, where’s that then?”
“It’s on the public share in Resourcing’s domain.”
I try the IP address he gives me. “Nope, no access to there from here.” I inform him.
“Never mind,” he says, “We’ll get server support to copy it for us.”
“Where’s it going then?” I say. He tells me and I try logging in there, thinking it would save a bit of time to set up folders and suchlike. “Windows could not log you on….blah, blah...” So, no access to that either then.
“I’ll get it sorted,” he says wandering off.
“The database software is on there though, right?” I call to his rapidly departing back.
“Nah, you’ll have to install it,” he replies.
"Do we have the install files?"
"No, you'll have to download them."
So.
We have the deceased remains of a database sitting on a server I can’t access, which needs to go to another server I can’t access, upon which there’s no software to run it anyway.
I start to sing quietly.
“Wake up ev’ry mornin’, same thing for breakfas’ so that every mouth can beeee…”
“And you can cut that out for a start!” he snaps.
*Sigh*.
“New job for us,” he announces, “Remember we migrated all that data out of that old database ages ago?”
We nod and mumble, not wanting to get drawn into that particular slough of despond again.
“Well, the client reckons we’ve done it wrong and they want us to check all the data for discrepancies.”
Groan. How tedious. The original work was done by a freelancer who has since retired to the Bahamas on the money we paid him.
“OK,” I sigh, “Where’s the old database hosted?”
It’s not there anymore.” Replies Boss, “They’ve deleted it.”
“Well I like a challenge. “ I quip, “How are we to communicate with this deceased database then? Clairvoyance? Ouija board - could take a while and we don't have any tumblers.”
The unexpectedly rubber edge of my rapier wit bounces harmlessly off Boss’s icy glare. “There’s a backup of it that just needs restoring.”
“OK, where’s that then?”
“It’s on the public share in Resourcing’s domain.”
I try the IP address he gives me. “Nope, no access to there from here.” I inform him.
“Never mind,” he says, “We’ll get server support to copy it for us.”
“Where’s it going then?” I say. He tells me and I try logging in there, thinking it would save a bit of time to set up folders and suchlike. “Windows could not log you on….blah, blah...” So, no access to that either then.
“I’ll get it sorted,” he says wandering off.
“The database software is on there though, right?” I call to his rapidly departing back.
“Nah, you’ll have to install it,” he replies.
"Do we have the install files?"
"No, you'll have to download them."
So.
We have the deceased remains of a database sitting on a server I can’t access, which needs to go to another server I can’t access, upon which there’s no software to run it anyway.
I start to sing quietly.
“Wake up ev’ry mornin’, same thing for breakfas’ so that every mouth can beeee…”
“And you can cut that out for a start!” he snaps.
*Sigh*.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Under African Skies
As I gaze out of the seventh floor window here at Throwback Towers, I can see herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the vast plains of Sainsbury's car park.
The boss comes in, he's covered in scratches and his clothes in tatters.
"What happened to you," I ask.
"Bloody lions," he grumbles, "it's about time the council did something, the Municipal park pride are getting bolder by the day. They nearly had me today!"
"Well you will insist on cycling to work through their territory." I tell him.
"But it's green to cycle!" he protests. Very big on green is my boss.
"From where I'm standing," I quip, " it looks more like red, black and blue!" He is not impressed, so I put the kettle on to cheer him up.
"Anyway," he continues, "the ring road was chock-a-block: some pillock knocked over a zebra at junction six."
"Yeah, I heard it on the news. Mind you, they have managed to get rid of those hippos that had moved into the ornamental lake at long last, so that's good."
We sip our tea thoughtfully, the silence only broken by the scream of angry baboons fighting over the bins at the back of MacDonald's.
None of this is true, of course. There aren't any giraffes either, which is a pity as I quite like them.
Some local bright spark has, however, come up with the idea of re-opening a nearby pub (formerly the haunt of bikers and drug-pushers, when it wasn't being set on fire) as, wait for it, an African-themed pub.
Now, we weren't sure what that would entail, but the advertising specifically said, and I quote: "Customers can have the full experience of Africa without the trouble of going there."
Peering through the window of the afore-mentioned pub the other day, my boss was not able to discern anything especially African about the place - no Zulu spears and shields on the wall, no witch-doctor masks, no fake zebra skins.
There was a menu consisting of just two African-sounding dishes, and they apparently serve that most African of beverages: Guinness.
So it would seem that Africa is just like a run-down manky old pub next to the railway station in a dodgy part of a post-industrial English city.
It's a good job I was able to get my money back on those Kenyan Safari tickets then.
I wonder if anybody will open a space-themed pub, I've always fancied going to space, but it seems like a lot of bother.
The boss comes in, he's covered in scratches and his clothes in tatters.
"What happened to you," I ask.
"Bloody lions," he grumbles, "it's about time the council did something, the Municipal park pride are getting bolder by the day. They nearly had me today!"
"Well you will insist on cycling to work through their territory." I tell him.
"But it's green to cycle!" he protests. Very big on green is my boss.
"From where I'm standing," I quip, " it looks more like red, black and blue!" He is not impressed, so I put the kettle on to cheer him up.
"Anyway," he continues, "the ring road was chock-a-block: some pillock knocked over a zebra at junction six."
"Yeah, I heard it on the news. Mind you, they have managed to get rid of those hippos that had moved into the ornamental lake at long last, so that's good."
We sip our tea thoughtfully, the silence only broken by the scream of angry baboons fighting over the bins at the back of MacDonald's.
None of this is true, of course. There aren't any giraffes either, which is a pity as I quite like them.
Some local bright spark has, however, come up with the idea of re-opening a nearby pub (formerly the haunt of bikers and drug-pushers, when it wasn't being set on fire) as, wait for it, an African-themed pub.
Now, we weren't sure what that would entail, but the advertising specifically said, and I quote: "Customers can have the full experience of Africa without the trouble of going there."
Peering through the window of the afore-mentioned pub the other day, my boss was not able to discern anything especially African about the place - no Zulu spears and shields on the wall, no witch-doctor masks, no fake zebra skins.
There was a menu consisting of just two African-sounding dishes, and they apparently serve that most African of beverages: Guinness.
So it would seem that Africa is just like a run-down manky old pub next to the railway station in a dodgy part of a post-industrial English city.
It's a good job I was able to get my money back on those Kenyan Safari tickets then.
I wonder if anybody will open a space-themed pub, I've always fancied going to space, but it seems like a lot of bother.
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
A New Home in the Sky - Stand and Deliver
A new job drops into the Klueless Support inbox.
"User is reporting receipt of files containing unwanted data".
I do a little bit of digging around and, sure enough, a data feed we send out each day has some spurious data in it when there should have been none, and has been doing this for a couple of days now.
I check the code and notice a bug, which is quickly fixed.
Well, I think to myself, that’s an easy one. Now, I’ll just email the users and tell them to discard the two files they received in error and the job’s a good ‘un, as we say.
“What are you working on at the moment,” asks the boss, wandering over.
“I’m just going to tell Sea-Mist that they can junk the files we sent them and that we’ve fixed the code so it won’t happen again.”
“Are you going to re-send the files?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, carefully, “I wasn’t actually planning to send them two completely empty text files as replacements, no.”
“I think you should send them the files.” He says.
“But they’ve got no data in them! It would be pointless!” I protest.
“Send them anyway,” he says. “That way, they’ll know we’ve delivered.”
If ever there was a word in the English language that has been abused, it’s the word ‘deliver’. Nothing is ever produced, only delivered. Nothing is sent, it’s delivered. The only thing that isn’t delivered, it seems, is my post of a morning (but that’s another story).
I sigh, fire up notepad, create 2 completely empty text files, name them appropriately and attach them to an email.
Having performed a Random Act of Management, the boss wanders off.
“I’ll send them,” I yell at his departing back, “But I’m sure as hell not encrypting them!”
"Whatever," he says, without even looking round.
Now I cannot let this pass. Before long we'll be deluged with pointless and unfulfilling tasks - more pointless and unfulfilling tasks, I should say.
A bit later, I go over to his desk and plonk his mug down upon it.
“What’s this?” he says.
“Your tea.” I reply. He peers into the mug.
“But there’s nothing in it,”
I smile.
“Remember that cup of tea I made you the other day that you said you didn’t want…..?”
I haz a sarcasm.
"User is reporting receipt of files containing unwanted data".
I do a little bit of digging around and, sure enough, a data feed we send out each day has some spurious data in it when there should have been none, and has been doing this for a couple of days now.
I check the code and notice a bug, which is quickly fixed.
Well, I think to myself, that’s an easy one. Now, I’ll just email the users and tell them to discard the two files they received in error and the job’s a good ‘un, as we say.
“What are you working on at the moment,” asks the boss, wandering over.
“I’m just going to tell Sea-Mist that they can junk the files we sent them and that we’ve fixed the code so it won’t happen again.”
“Are you going to re-send the files?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, carefully, “I wasn’t actually planning to send them two completely empty text files as replacements, no.”
“I think you should send them the files.” He says.
“But they’ve got no data in them! It would be pointless!” I protest.
“Send them anyway,” he says. “That way, they’ll know we’ve delivered.”
If ever there was a word in the English language that has been abused, it’s the word ‘deliver’. Nothing is ever produced, only delivered. Nothing is sent, it’s delivered. The only thing that isn’t delivered, it seems, is my post of a morning (but that’s another story).
I sigh, fire up notepad, create 2 completely empty text files, name them appropriately and attach them to an email.
Having performed a Random Act of Management, the boss wanders off.
“I’ll send them,” I yell at his departing back, “But I’m sure as hell not encrypting them!”
"Whatever," he says, without even looking round.
Now I cannot let this pass. Before long we'll be deluged with pointless and unfulfilling tasks - more pointless and unfulfilling tasks, I should say.
A bit later, I go over to his desk and plonk his mug down upon it.
“What’s this?” he says.
“Your tea.” I reply. He peers into the mug.
“But there’s nothing in it,”
I smile.
“Remember that cup of tea I made you the other day that you said you didn’t want…..?”
I haz a sarcasm.
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
A New Home in the Sky - As Good As It Gets
A work request arrives into the Klueless Support team’s queue with an apologetic little ping. The boss reads the summary - and then re-reads it aloud for our benefit.
“User is requesting that the number 7 be removed from a report”
???!!??
Does the user want us simply to open the report in MS Word and delete the offending figure?
We could do this, obviously, but that would kind of invalidate the report, wouldn’t it? Imagine if people were suddenly to start going around changing figures in reports that they just didn’t like the look of? Where would it all end? Whole wars might be started, for pity’s sake! Surely our user can’t be suggesting that we behave in such an anarchistic fashion?
It must be something else then.
Maybe the user wants us to alter the fundamental properties of the universe such that the number seven no longer exists? Technically, this is more of a challenge, obviously, and could have far-reaching effects. How many days would there be in a week? How many ages of man? How many ancient wonders of the world? How would we refer to the film we currently know as The Magnificent Seven? The Magnificent 6a just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?
Turns out that all the user wants is for us to remove seven erroneous data records from the database so they don’t show up in the report. Boring, but makes a bit more sense and, more importantly, is within our power to accomplish (although I was willing to give the removal of sevenness a shot if there was some overtime in it).
Numbers are weird things, though, aren’t they? I myself was a total duffer at maths in school but always really really wanted to be good at it. Alas, the principles of mathematics slipped through my desperately grasping fingers like so many greased eels on Speed. I’ve always admired people who ‘get’ maths.
We were discussing this very topic recently in an idle moment at Throwback Towers. There had been a documentary on TV about the chap that finally solved Fermat’s Last Theorem. This fellow spent something like seven (or 6a, if you will) whole years closeted away with just a pencil and paper, working on this problem (no computers, note, which is probably why he was able to solve it – just sayin’). He shared his work with very few people and then only when he was finally getting ready to reveal it to the world. It was the crowning achievement of his life – by his own admission, he is never again likely to accomplish anything like as important as that piece of work.
You have to admire the dedication, the patience and sheer singlemindedness needed to work like that.
You have to feel sorry for a man who knows that he will never be able to equal that one shining moment in his career.
For him, that was as good as it gets.
After some discussion (and an umbrella-fight – don’t ask!), we agreed that the rivers of our lives would most likely flow on serenely, happily untroubled by having to come up with something to ‘top’ what we had already achieved.
This means one of two things:
a) We are a bunch of unprincipled slackers whose capacity to under-achieve is matched only by our dedication to the same.
b) We still have our crowning moment ahead of us somewhere.
I’d really like to think it was the latter.
“User is requesting that the number 7 be removed from a report”
???!!??
Does the user want us simply to open the report in MS Word and delete the offending figure?
We could do this, obviously, but that would kind of invalidate the report, wouldn’t it? Imagine if people were suddenly to start going around changing figures in reports that they just didn’t like the look of? Where would it all end? Whole wars might be started, for pity’s sake! Surely our user can’t be suggesting that we behave in such an anarchistic fashion?
It must be something else then.
Maybe the user wants us to alter the fundamental properties of the universe such that the number seven no longer exists? Technically, this is more of a challenge, obviously, and could have far-reaching effects. How many days would there be in a week? How many ages of man? How many ancient wonders of the world? How would we refer to the film we currently know as The Magnificent Seven? The Magnificent 6a just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?
Turns out that all the user wants is for us to remove seven erroneous data records from the database so they don’t show up in the report. Boring, but makes a bit more sense and, more importantly, is within our power to accomplish (although I was willing to give the removal of sevenness a shot if there was some overtime in it).
Numbers are weird things, though, aren’t they? I myself was a total duffer at maths in school but always really really wanted to be good at it. Alas, the principles of mathematics slipped through my desperately grasping fingers like so many greased eels on Speed. I’ve always admired people who ‘get’ maths.
We were discussing this very topic recently in an idle moment at Throwback Towers. There had been a documentary on TV about the chap that finally solved Fermat’s Last Theorem. This fellow spent something like seven (or 6a, if you will) whole years closeted away with just a pencil and paper, working on this problem (no computers, note, which is probably why he was able to solve it – just sayin’). He shared his work with very few people and then only when he was finally getting ready to reveal it to the world. It was the crowning achievement of his life – by his own admission, he is never again likely to accomplish anything like as important as that piece of work.
You have to admire the dedication, the patience and sheer singlemindedness needed to work like that.
You have to feel sorry for a man who knows that he will never be able to equal that one shining moment in his career.
For him, that was as good as it gets.
After some discussion (and an umbrella-fight – don’t ask!), we agreed that the rivers of our lives would most likely flow on serenely, happily untroubled by having to come up with something to ‘top’ what we had already achieved.
This means one of two things:
a) We are a bunch of unprincipled slackers whose capacity to under-achieve is matched only by our dedication to the same.
b) We still have our crowning moment ahead of us somewhere.
I’d really like to think it was the latter.
Monday, 6 December 2010
A New Home in the Sky - You Could Not Make This Stuff Up
Old Bessie isn't well.
Various grim-faced Men in Overalls (some with Canvas Tool Bags) have visited her down in the basement of Throwback Towers, scratched their heads and gone away again. Bessie is very old, you see, forty years old, in fact and for a boiler, that's pretty ancient.
The Scotsman, who is the caretaker and living embodiment of Throwback Towers (having himself been installed when the building was first put up, and who will, I think, simply fade away into thin air when TT is torn down to make way for yet more 'vibrant' Cafes, Shops and Bars - a baffling obsession of our City Planners) tells us sadly that she's never given a minute's trouble in all that time. The thing is, though, forty-year-old parts are not easy to come by.
So, it's extra layers of fleeces, jackets, hats and gloves up on the seventh, oh and, endless cups of really hot tea – not to drink, mind you, just to hold .
From our window, nothing is visible again today because of the fog. We could be in a kind of chilly limbo. Perhaps this is some kind of afterlife. We often joke that we must have all been killed in a plane crash or some such and have each somehow ended up here, doomed to tend Klueless, its servers and databases, for all eternity. On a day like today, when there is nothing but a blank whiteness outside the windows, you could almost believe it.
A Business analyst comes wandering in, complaining that her computer cannot seem to connect to the corporate network for some reason. She's not technical (they seldom are, bless!), so one of our number trots over to see if he can help.
A while later, he returns with a cat-that-has-not-only-got-the-cream-but-has-just-acquired-a-controlling-interest-in-Associated-Dairies look on his face.
"Fixed it!" he announces, smugly.
"Oh, yes?" we cry, "What was was it then? IP Address conflict, proxy settings not set properly?" Techies ALWAYS want to know how stuff got fixed.
"Well," he says, absently breaking the ice on his tea with a spoon, "When I unplugged the network cable, you'll never guess what I found."
"What did you find?" we chorus, playing the part alloted to us in this little drama, and expecting some blether about broken connectors, loose wires and so on.
"There was a dead ladybird wedged into the network port."
"A dead - ?"
" - Ladybird. Yes, an actual dead ladybird."
He looks at us expectantly.
And there it is. It's hanging in the air like a cloud of Sarin gas, but nobody wants to go there. Nobody wants to, but somebody is going to have to Do The Decent Thing. Sooner or later, somebody is going to have to say....
"So, you're saying there was a bug in the network?" says the Boss.
We breathe a sigh of relief, glad to get that out of the way.
You really couldn't make this stuff up, and I promise I didn't (although I may have exaggerated about the cold - a bit).
Various grim-faced Men in Overalls (some with Canvas Tool Bags) have visited her down in the basement of Throwback Towers, scratched their heads and gone away again. Bessie is very old, you see, forty years old, in fact and for a boiler, that's pretty ancient.
The Scotsman, who is the caretaker and living embodiment of Throwback Towers (having himself been installed when the building was first put up, and who will, I think, simply fade away into thin air when TT is torn down to make way for yet more 'vibrant' Cafes, Shops and Bars - a baffling obsession of our City Planners) tells us sadly that she's never given a minute's trouble in all that time. The thing is, though, forty-year-old parts are not easy to come by.
So, it's extra layers of fleeces, jackets, hats and gloves up on the seventh, oh and, endless cups of really hot tea – not to drink, mind you, just to hold .
From our window, nothing is visible again today because of the fog. We could be in a kind of chilly limbo. Perhaps this is some kind of afterlife. We often joke that we must have all been killed in a plane crash or some such and have each somehow ended up here, doomed to tend Klueless, its servers and databases, for all eternity. On a day like today, when there is nothing but a blank whiteness outside the windows, you could almost believe it.
A Business analyst comes wandering in, complaining that her computer cannot seem to connect to the corporate network for some reason. She's not technical (they seldom are, bless!), so one of our number trots over to see if he can help.
A while later, he returns with a cat-that-has-not-only-got-the-cream-but-has-just-acquired-a-controlling-interest-in-Associated-Dairies look on his face.
"Fixed it!" he announces, smugly.
"Oh, yes?" we cry, "What was was it then? IP Address conflict, proxy settings not set properly?" Techies ALWAYS want to know how stuff got fixed.
"Well," he says, absently breaking the ice on his tea with a spoon, "When I unplugged the network cable, you'll never guess what I found."
"What did you find?" we chorus, playing the part alloted to us in this little drama, and expecting some blether about broken connectors, loose wires and so on.
"There was a dead ladybird wedged into the network port."
"A dead - ?"
" - Ladybird. Yes, an actual dead ladybird."
He looks at us expectantly.
And there it is. It's hanging in the air like a cloud of Sarin gas, but nobody wants to go there. Nobody wants to, but somebody is going to have to Do The Decent Thing. Sooner or later, somebody is going to have to say....
"So, you're saying there was a bug in the network?" says the Boss.
We breathe a sigh of relief, glad to get that out of the way.
You really couldn't make this stuff up, and I promise I didn't (although I may have exaggerated about the cold - a bit).
Thursday, 11 November 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Remembering
Today we decided, as Klueless was behaving itself tolerably well, that we would make an effort to perform a proper act of remembering at 11 o'clock and not just sit slack-jawed at our desks for two minutes.
So, with the wind blustering and the rain falling, we adjourned to the Cathedral Suite. Spare Change Guy greeted us from his usual place in the underpass, a giant puddle creeping gradually nearer to him as the rain fell. It will be interesting to see if he will keep to the same spot as the winter weather cuts in.
Quite a few people were in the Cathedral Suite before us, although most of them seemed to be there as tourists, and there were some students at one end doing some kind of performance art thing - or so it looked to us. They were quite noisy and we hoped they would quiet down in time for the two minutes' silence.
They did.
And then it was like this:
So, with the wind blustering and the rain falling, we adjourned to the Cathedral Suite. Spare Change Guy greeted us from his usual place in the underpass, a giant puddle creeping gradually nearer to him as the rain fell. It will be interesting to see if he will keep to the same spot as the winter weather cuts in.
Quite a few people were in the Cathedral Suite before us, although most of them seemed to be there as tourists, and there were some students at one end doing some kind of performance art thing - or so it looked to us. They were quite noisy and we hoped they would quiet down in time for the two minutes' silence.
They did.
And then it was like this:
The eleven O’Clock bells chime
And down from the leaden sky
The silence drifts like a blanket.
We stand bareheaded under the grey.
Strangers all, come together here
Among the ruins, to remember.
We look skyward unseeing, or shoe-ward,
While the November wind and rain
Go about their business, unconcerned.
A silver ribbon of music
Unwinds from a bugle’s mouth
And goes floating on the sodden air.
In this roofless ruin
The high clear notes echo round
Touching here stone, here wood, here heart.
Then the city stretches and stirs, waking.
The silence is rolled up
And put away for another year.
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Therapy, Schmerapy
It's a grey and cloudy day here at Throwback Towers and one of the Klueless Decision Support systems has just gone down in flames. The phone is ringing and the Company instant messaging system has gone into some kind of meltdown with all the yelps and screams of anguished, would-be system users.
Just another day at the office then.
My manager is sitting at his desk, staring serenely at half a walnut cradled in his hands.
"Er, what ya doing?" I ask, "only, Klueless is down and the users are going mental."
He tears himself away from his contemplation of Jupiter's Acorn.
"It's a relaxation technique," he tells me. "you get a walnut and study it - really study it for at least five minutes, focusing on nothing but the look and the texture. After that, you put it on your tongue and move it around for five minutes without chewing it to get all the different flavours and tactile sensations. It's really good for stress."
He pops it into his mouth. "Shee?"
I fold my arms and allow a look of scepticism to amble across my face.
"You did hear me say that Klueless is down, didn't you?"
He nods.
"And you do know that they've raised a P1 against us?"
He nods.
I pick a spare walnut up off his desk.
"Good for stress, huh?"
He nods a third time.
I turn the little brown brain-looking thing in my hands for a moment or two, then toss it back onto the table.
Nuts.
As if there aren't enough of them around here already.
Just another day at the office then.
My manager is sitting at his desk, staring serenely at half a walnut cradled in his hands.
"Er, what ya doing?" I ask, "only, Klueless is down and the users are going mental."
He tears himself away from his contemplation of Jupiter's Acorn.
"It's a relaxation technique," he tells me. "you get a walnut and study it - really study it for at least five minutes, focusing on nothing but the look and the texture. After that, you put it on your tongue and move it around for five minutes without chewing it to get all the different flavours and tactile sensations. It's really good for stress."
He pops it into his mouth. "Shee?"
I fold my arms and allow a look of scepticism to amble across my face.
"You did hear me say that Klueless is down, didn't you?"
He nods.
"And you do know that they've raised a P1 against us?"
He nods.
I pick a spare walnut up off his desk.
"Good for stress, huh?"
He nods a third time.
I turn the little brown brain-looking thing in my hands for a moment or two, then toss it back onto the table.
Nuts.
As if there aren't enough of them around here already.
Thursday, 30 September 2010
A New Home in the Sky - I Am Zen
"Zen, can you help me please?" This is one of our new offshorians. Bless him, my single syllable of a name is too much for his tongue. In all other respects, though, he is perfectly capable, eager, smart, attentive, polite. I'm starting to wonder if he's actually human. I know my company has some quite strange recruitment practices but I never expected them to extend quite so far...
They SAY he's from Offshore...
What if he's actually from much further afield?
I know it's hot in Offshore, but what if he's from somewhere even hotter?
Come to think of it, I have not seen him eat or drink since he got here. Does he sleep?
Hmmmmm....
This morning, he came in with red eyes. He SAYS it's an eye infection. Under the fluorescents, it's hard to tell if they're glowing a little bit or just really sore.
I wouldn't put it past my employers to enter into some deal with the Infernal Powers - actually, with my employer's aggressive and subtle negotiation practices, I'd advise those Down Below to read the fine print really carefully or they'll probably find they have signed themselves up to outsourcing their Core Processes to us.
In which case, I'm guessing the call centre won't be in Mumbai.
In the meantime, my esteemed co-worker may or may not be a soulless denizen of the underworld.
I am Zen. I really am.
They SAY he's from Offshore...
What if he's actually from much further afield?
I know it's hot in Offshore, but what if he's from somewhere even hotter?
Come to think of it, I have not seen him eat or drink since he got here. Does he sleep?
Hmmmmm....
This morning, he came in with red eyes. He SAYS it's an eye infection. Under the fluorescents, it's hard to tell if they're glowing a little bit or just really sore.
I wouldn't put it past my employers to enter into some deal with the Infernal Powers - actually, with my employer's aggressive and subtle negotiation practices, I'd advise those Down Below to read the fine print really carefully or they'll probably find they have signed themselves up to outsourcing their Core Processes to us.
In which case, I'm guessing the call centre won't be in Mumbai.
In the meantime, my esteemed co-worker may or may not be a soulless denizen of the underworld.
I am Zen. I really am.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
A New Home in the Sky - The Meeting Room
In direct contrast to last week, the sun is fairly pouring through the strangely blue-tinted windows of Throwback Towers today, so much so, that GD decides that we will have our team meeting in the 'Cathedral Suite'. It is arranged that we will meet there after our post-prandial pootle around the retail district.
On the way there, we are accosted by Possibly-Genuinely-Stranded-Girl who puts on a charming performance - including a plausible story of a lost purse and repeated requests for our email addresses so she can arrange to pay us back if we give her some money ("even 20p would do!"). I fork over a quid and you might be forgiven for thinking I have just saved her life, so effusive are her thanks. Scam? Not sure, but sufficiently entertaining and just plausible enough to be worth a quid of anybody's money (are you taking note, St Peter?).
Anyway, after the pootling about, we arrive at the Cathedral Suite.
This is the door.....
As you can see, the meeting room is spacious and fully air-conditioned....
With none of that nasty carpet that covers the corporate land like some kind of evil beige moss...
With ample seating for all our meeting needs, large or small....
We are here to talk about the new additions to our team that are arriving tomorrow from the land of Offshore. Offshore is that nice place where all the Call Centres are these days. Offshore is where you can get three highly-trained Klueless Decision Support System techies for the price of one Brit.
We're not worried about our jobs though, as the viscissitudes of IL-4 mean that the Offshorians are not allowed to access the super-secret stuff - only we Brits are. Gotta love that implicit corporate racism.
We talk seriously about these things for just long enough to say with a clear conscience that we've been having a proper meeting then we degenerate into the usual mixture of buffoonery, gossip, nostalgia and making up fantastically exaggerated life-stories for people we know (a favorite passtime of ours).
This gives us an idea: we decide on the way back that we will introduce Spare Change Guy to our Offshorians as a former member of the team who has quit the corporate rat-race after a particularly stressful week on-call. We'll big him up as being the guy we still go to when we hit a real problem ("he's forgotten more than most of us will ever know about Klueless"). I'm sure for a couple of quid SCG will play along.
On the way there, we are accosted by Possibly-Genuinely-Stranded-Girl who puts on a charming performance - including a plausible story of a lost purse and repeated requests for our email addresses so she can arrange to pay us back if we give her some money ("even 20p would do!"). I fork over a quid and you might be forgiven for thinking I have just saved her life, so effusive are her thanks. Scam? Not sure, but sufficiently entertaining and just plausible enough to be worth a quid of anybody's money (are you taking note, St Peter?).
Anyway, after the pootling about, we arrive at the Cathedral Suite.
This is the door.....
As you can see, the meeting room is spacious and fully air-conditioned....
With none of that nasty carpet that covers the corporate land like some kind of evil beige moss...
With ample seating for all our meeting needs, large or small....
We are here to talk about the new additions to our team that are arriving tomorrow from the land of Offshore. Offshore is that nice place where all the Call Centres are these days. Offshore is where you can get three highly-trained Klueless Decision Support System techies for the price of one Brit.
We're not worried about our jobs though, as the viscissitudes of IL-4 mean that the Offshorians are not allowed to access the super-secret stuff - only we Brits are. Gotta love that implicit corporate racism.
We talk seriously about these things for just long enough to say with a clear conscience that we've been having a proper meeting then we degenerate into the usual mixture of buffoonery, gossip, nostalgia and making up fantastically exaggerated life-stories for people we know (a favorite passtime of ours).
This gives us an idea: we decide on the way back that we will introduce Spare Change Guy to our Offshorians as a former member of the team who has quit the corporate rat-race after a particularly stressful week on-call. We'll big him up as being the guy we still go to when we hit a real problem ("he's forgotten more than most of us will ever know about Klueless"). I'm sure for a couple of quid SCG will play along.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Saucy Goings-On
The sky, as viewed from our 7th Floor eyrie, is what hack novelists might describe as ‘slate-grey’ or ‘leaden’ – an almost uniform shade of dullness with no break in the cloud-cover anywhere. It could be November. The rain is coming down in stair-rods. Spare Change Guy, who normally sits at the bottom of the steps to the underpass has had to move to higher ground or be drowned (one solution to the problem of begging, I suppose)
IL4-hitman Terry has been very quiet today, engrossed as he is in the proposed new International Linear Collider (Large Hadron Colliders are so yesterday, it seems).
JH, a female colleague from another team, wanders in with an envelope.
“Look at this,” she says, proffering the white rectangle. “I got this in the post this morning. It’s dead weird.” I see nothing particularly weird about receiving an envelope - a device whose very purpose it is to convey mail messages - through one's letterbox, but wisely refrain from commenting.
I look at it. It’s an unremarkable white envelope which is neatly addressed and has what appears to be the correct postage on it. I turn it over, see nothing amiss, and look inquiringly at her.
“No,” she says, “Open it.”
I hadn’t wanted to do this uninvited as it was personally addressed to her and the gummy bit on the flap had resealed it, making it appear unopened. Anyway…
Inside are two items:
No other note, no writing on the slip, no explanation.
Apparently JH did visit this campsite many years ago, but is that any reason for them to be sending random condiments through the post?
Is it some kind of promotional? (remember how lovely our sauce sachets were?)
It is some kind of very oblique threat? (remember how awful our sauce sachets were?)
Why on earth would somebody spend money posting sauce sachets to people?
The world is a most mystifying place at times.
And still the rain continues.
IL4-hitman Terry has been very quiet today, engrossed as he is in the proposed new International Linear Collider (Large Hadron Colliders are so yesterday, it seems).
JH, a female colleague from another team, wanders in with an envelope.
“Look at this,” she says, proffering the white rectangle. “I got this in the post this morning. It’s dead weird.” I see nothing particularly weird about receiving an envelope - a device whose very purpose it is to convey mail messages - through one's letterbox, but wisely refrain from commenting.
I look at it. It’s an unremarkable white envelope which is neatly addressed and has what appears to be the correct postage on it. I turn it over, see nothing amiss, and look inquiringly at her.
“No,” she says, “Open it.”
I hadn’t wanted to do this uninvited as it was personally addressed to her and the gummy bit on the flap had resealed it, making it appear unopened. Anyway…
Inside are two items:
- An individual sachet of tomato sauce
- A blank compliment slip from a caravan site in Wales.
No other note, no writing on the slip, no explanation.
Apparently JH did visit this campsite many years ago, but is that any reason for them to be sending random condiments through the post?
Is it some kind of promotional? (remember how lovely our sauce sachets were?)
It is some kind of very oblique threat? (remember how awful our sauce sachets were?)
Why on earth would somebody spend money posting sauce sachets to people?
The world is a most mystifying place at times.
And still the rain continues.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Beggars Belief
Well it turns out that Terry, our ex-SAS/Black Ops/Poundland IL-4 killing machine has not actually rubbed out Spare Change Guy after all. No, the local Police have decided that our town would be heaps better off without any beggars importuning strangers and generally making the place look untidy, so they've rounded them all up.
Shame.
Spare Change Guy was inoffensive enough, never actually asked for money – unlike that other guy. That other guy who dresses in a suit, has what looks like a corporate ID hanging round his neck and gives out a sob story of being stranded so please could you spare a quid for the phone? Yeah, that guy! Soft-hearted numbskull that I am, I believed him and gave him some money. Next day, I run into him again, playing exactly the same script word for word. It's enough to give beggars a bad name. I suppose I should admire his ingenious use of costume and props, but I'm too small-minded and bitter to do that.
I don't mind begging as such, it's a hard world out there, but I won't be made a fool of. Spare Change Guy was pleasant and friendly and always wished us a good day even if we didn't give him anything (I actually did on a few occasions - soft-hearted numbskull, remember?). But Fake Stranded Guy is just annoying and deceitful, so let's hope the cops swept him up good.
In other news, the word is that we are all to be given a second laptop to do our super-secret IL-4 work on. Niiiiice. I like to walk the three-and-a-half miles to work, so now I'll have to carry two computers on my back. Plus, the IL-4 laptop has to be kept in a lockable metal box when not in use. That's going to be heavy and a tad awkward to fit in my backpack, methinks.
Maybe I could hire one of these beggars to be my porter. Not Fake Stranded Guy though. No job for him, the toe-rag.
Shame.
Spare Change Guy was inoffensive enough, never actually asked for money – unlike that other guy. That other guy who dresses in a suit, has what looks like a corporate ID hanging round his neck and gives out a sob story of being stranded so please could you spare a quid for the phone? Yeah, that guy! Soft-hearted numbskull that I am, I believed him and gave him some money. Next day, I run into him again, playing exactly the same script word for word. It's enough to give beggars a bad name. I suppose I should admire his ingenious use of costume and props, but I'm too small-minded and bitter to do that.
I don't mind begging as such, it's a hard world out there, but I won't be made a fool of. Spare Change Guy was pleasant and friendly and always wished us a good day even if we didn't give him anything (I actually did on a few occasions - soft-hearted numbskull, remember?). But Fake Stranded Guy is just annoying and deceitful, so let's hope the cops swept him up good.
In other news, the word is that we are all to be given a second laptop to do our super-secret IL-4 work on. Niiiiice. I like to walk the three-and-a-half miles to work, so now I'll have to carry two computers on my back. Plus, the IL-4 laptop has to be kept in a lockable metal box when not in use. That's going to be heavy and a tad awkward to fit in my backpack, methinks.
Maybe I could hire one of these beggars to be my porter. Not Fake Stranded Guy though. No job for him, the toe-rag.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Secrets and Lies
It's a nice morning. I'm in a good mood. So good, in fact, that I drop a quid into the cup of the guy sitting in the underpass by Throwback Towers begging for change.
From our lofty eyrie on the seventh floor, we can see out over the city – or we could if somebody hadn't erected a huge blue 20-storey cube of glass in the immediate line of sight. Anyway, as I say, it's a nice morning. We haven't seen a rat for days (or the big boss, for that matter) and the Klueless Decision Support systems are ticking over - instead of falling over.
GD comes bouncing in.
"Good morning, people!" he sings, "Guess what? We're going for IL-4!"
"Going for what, now?" we chorus dully. Yet more wastes of the valuable precious seconds of our lives, no doubt.
"IL-4," he explains, "It's a new security thing. We're going to offer our clients super-secure storage for their data."
I hit the web and discover stuff about Government Information Frameworks...blah, blah ... ISO-yadda-yadda .. background checks ... compliance .. yawn ...physical access controls... security perimiters.... blah, blah ... strong encryption ... blah, blah, blah ... armed guards ... bla-
Wait.
What was that last one?
Armed guards?
ARMED GUARDS?
GD claps his hands to get our attention. "Everyone? I'd like you to meet Terry. He's our new security officer for IL-4."
Terry is six foot fourteen and has a face like a lorry tyre. He's either a veteran of numerous Black Ops or has worked security at Poundland, it's hard to tell. Either way, he's probably seen too much.
We say hi – ever so slightly nervously.
"Awright." Terry is a man of few words, it seems.
He takes up station in the Purple Zone – the interior designers of the 80s thought it was cool and futuristic to make the reception area look like one of the sets in 2001: A Space Odyssey. It's not. It's naff. Terry doesn't seem to mind though. He takes out a magazine and begins to read. Expecting to see Soldier of Fortune, Mercenary Weekly or at the very least, Which Garotte, I'm mildly surprised to see his magazine of choice is New Scientist.
Brainy and lethal. Interesting.
At lunchtime, we peons escape out into the sunshine in search of lunch. We reach the bottom of the steps leading to the underpass.
There's something – or should I say, someone – missing. There is also an odd stain on the wall just where Spare Change guy usually sits.
We turn to each other and whisper.
"IL-4"
From our lofty eyrie on the seventh floor, we can see out over the city – or we could if somebody hadn't erected a huge blue 20-storey cube of glass in the immediate line of sight. Anyway, as I say, it's a nice morning. We haven't seen a rat for days (or the big boss, for that matter) and the Klueless Decision Support systems are ticking over - instead of falling over.
GD comes bouncing in.
"Good morning, people!" he sings, "Guess what? We're going for IL-4!"
"Going for what, now?" we chorus dully. Yet more wastes of the valuable precious seconds of our lives, no doubt.
"IL-4," he explains, "It's a new security thing. We're going to offer our clients super-secure storage for their data."
I hit the web and discover stuff about Government Information Frameworks...blah, blah ... ISO-yadda-yadda .. background checks ... compliance .. yawn ...physical access controls... security perimiters.... blah, blah ... strong encryption ... blah, blah, blah ... armed guards ... bla-
Wait.
What was that last one?
Armed guards?
ARMED GUARDS?
GD claps his hands to get our attention. "Everyone? I'd like you to meet Terry. He's our new security officer for IL-4."
Terry is six foot fourteen and has a face like a lorry tyre. He's either a veteran of numerous Black Ops or has worked security at Poundland, it's hard to tell. Either way, he's probably seen too much.
We say hi – ever so slightly nervously.
"Awright." Terry is a man of few words, it seems.
He takes up station in the Purple Zone – the interior designers of the 80s thought it was cool and futuristic to make the reception area look like one of the sets in 2001: A Space Odyssey. It's not. It's naff. Terry doesn't seem to mind though. He takes out a magazine and begins to read. Expecting to see Soldier of Fortune, Mercenary Weekly or at the very least, Which Garotte, I'm mildly surprised to see his magazine of choice is New Scientist.
Brainy and lethal. Interesting.
At lunchtime, we peons escape out into the sunshine in search of lunch. We reach the bottom of the steps leading to the underpass.
There's something – or should I say, someone – missing. There is also an odd stain on the wall just where Spare Change guy usually sits.
We turn to each other and whisper.
"IL-4"
Monday, 21 June 2010
A New Home in the Sky - Moving Day
So, my boss, GD, comes bouncing into the office.
"I've just been on the phone to the Nice Lady at Throwback Towers," he cries, all excited, "We can go over and check out our new office accommodation. We'll have a home of own - at last!"
"Sounds great," Says I, one of the lowly peons of Klueless Decision Support Systems - Managed Service Support Team (don't ask me to repeat it, it's no better the second time around, honest).
"Can we go tomorrow?" I ask, "'Cos I swear, if I have to eavesdrop one more phone call from that Kiwi Business Analyst with the voice like a buzz-saw, I'll shove her head so far up her.. Well, let's just say she will be able to lick her own tonsils – from below."
"Yes, tomorrow's good," replies GD airily, "But the Nice Lady said we had to ignore the mess 'cos it'll all be cleaned up before we move in."
"The mess?" I'm intrigued now, "How much mess? It's only an old office. Are we talking old paperwork, coffee mugs, that kind of thing?"
"Yeah, kind of," He's looking a bit shifty now, "She assures me the rats will be dealt with before we get moved in, though."
"Rats? What are rats doing on the seventh floor of Throwback Towers?"
"I expect they like the view," he says absently, wandering in the direction of the coffee machine.
Great.
Now it looks like I have to start taking a baseball bat to work – again.
"I've just been on the phone to the Nice Lady at Throwback Towers," he cries, all excited, "We can go over and check out our new office accommodation. We'll have a home of own - at last!"
"Sounds great," Says I, one of the lowly peons of Klueless Decision Support Systems - Managed Service Support Team (don't ask me to repeat it, it's no better the second time around, honest).
"Can we go tomorrow?" I ask, "'Cos I swear, if I have to eavesdrop one more phone call from that Kiwi Business Analyst with the voice like a buzz-saw, I'll shove her head so far up her.. Well, let's just say she will be able to lick her own tonsils – from below."
"Yes, tomorrow's good," replies GD airily, "But the Nice Lady said we had to ignore the mess 'cos it'll all be cleaned up before we move in."
"The mess?" I'm intrigued now, "How much mess? It's only an old office. Are we talking old paperwork, coffee mugs, that kind of thing?"
"Yeah, kind of," He's looking a bit shifty now, "She assures me the rats will be dealt with before we get moved in, though."
"Rats? What are rats doing on the seventh floor of Throwback Towers?"
"I expect they like the view," he says absently, wandering in the direction of the coffee machine.
Great.
Now it looks like I have to start taking a baseball bat to work – again.
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