Meetings, meetings, meetings….
In the workplace, they are places to spend hours of your precious life daydreaming and/or longing for death, listening to some boring old fart droning on and on (of course, you might BE the boring old fart, which is almost as bad).
Elsewhere, they can be a thing of mystery, excitement and anticipation, or blind chance, holding out the promise of new things, of change, or the renewal of something long-forgotten.
So this week’s ticket to ride should be something connected with meetings. Any kind, anywhere with anybody or anything.
So get scribbling and when done, leave a comment here and I will construct linky-things.
I've had my entire weekend written off with a cold, so apologies, but I'm just going to publish the links without any clever references to their contents. My effort is below:
Meeting Me
If I could meet my 20-year-old self
I'd fetch her such a slap,
For being such a dozy cow,
For being clueless and timid
And not seizing the world
That was her oyster back then.
But most of all, I'd slap her face
Good and hard,
Shake her by the shoulders
And scream
Into her uncomprehending face
"Don't turn into me!"
The Passenger list....
Dr FTSE
Stammering Poet
Karen
Muse Swings
Rachel
Pateran
Weaver
120 Socks
TotalFeckinEejit
Enchanted Oak
NanU
Jinksy
Niamh B
Titus
The Bug
Carolina Linthead
Mrs Trellis
Jeanne Iris
The Watercats (and all the things)
Don't Feed the Pixies
Poetikat
Emerging Writer
Thursday, 21 October 2010
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.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Weekly Wordzzle 130
Good evening Campers, it's the rather late edition of the weekly wordzzle.
Not going to moan about the words - I chose them, after all. No, my struggle this week was with my ongoing story - which way to send the action. That's the trouble with making stuff up as you go instead of planing it all out, I guess.
Anyway, for next week's words and this week's players go to Raven's Nest as usual.
The Mini (Ipad, Chinese whispers, CD, sparkling, cat food)
Tim’s birthday was coming up and Emma was fresh out of ideas. She knew he really wanted one of those new IPad thingies but there was no way she could afford one of those, not this year. In previous years, when she had still been earning the big bucks at the bank, she would plan Tim’s Birthday Experience, as she called it, like a military operation. Weeks in advance, she would start a campaign of Chinese whispers and disinformation. She would drop hints about what she was getting him to all their mutual friends – a different and inaccurate hint to each. She would leave her internet browser conveniently pointing at a page containing the latest in sparkling gadgetry, she would linger meaningfully outside the most trendy men’s clothing shops when she and Tim were out and about together , things like that. Then she would surprise him with something completely different like a ballooning holiday in Africa or a piece of jewellery of her own designing which she had had specially made for him. This year would have to be different though, there just wasn’t the money for that kind of thing any more. The bank had ‘downsized’ her and Tim’s music career was yet to take off, his debut CD hadn’t even made the playlist of the local radio station. Emma sighed, put the can of Kit-e-Chow budget cat food back on its shelf and picked up the usual more expensive Kit-e-Licious Aberdeen Angus Steaklets in Tasty Jelly. There were some things she wasn’t going to cut back on, no matter how hard the times were. Besides, there was a competition on the Kit-e-Licious pack and the first prize was an IPad. You never knew.
The 10-Worder (talented, oak, speaker, junk, wrapper, pencil, ocean, chatter, bullet, steamy)
The agents and Harold let themselves into Mr Teeth’s house.
Othello gave a softly appreciative whistle upon surveying the interior with its cool white walls, blond wood and abstract paintings.
“The man certainly does have taste,” he said, shaking his head wonderingly.
“Are you kidding?” said Prada, scornfully, “These pictures look like they were done by a monkey – no offence, Mr Teatime.”
“None taken,” replied Teatime, “I would venture the same opinion myself. I mean to say, just look at that one over there, all bluey-grey splodges. What on earth is all that about?”
“That’s ‘Bullet the Ocean’ by Tom Windermere, you philistines!” said Othello, walking over to the picture.
“One of his early pieces. He was very talented.”
“Was?” asked Prada, “Was? Don’t say he died a tragic death, too! What is it with these creative types always dropping off their perches early.”
“The brightest lights burn the shortest, I guess,” said Othello. Prada made a rude noise.
“Well, he should have lived to be a hundred then, looking at this.”
“Art doesn’t have to be photographically representational, you know,” Othello began to reply with some heat, but all the chatter was cut short as the house’s front door swung open and Mr Teeth came in.
He showed them all to a large, airy room that would serve them as an office for the duration.
“Let me just clear away this junk,” he said, and began sweeping bits and pieces – a broken pencil, a candy bar wrapper or several, some screwed-up sticky notes, bent paper clips and whatnot – that littered the two large oak desks into a waste bin.
“We got wireless networking here,” he continued, “Passphrase is ‘Steamy Windows’ and when Othello raised an eyebrow, he added “Don’t ask!”
“Thanks,” said Mercury, and they began to set up.
The room was well-equipped. Apart from the desks and chairs, there was a whiteboard and dry-wipe markers, a printer/copier and one of those phones with an external speaker for conference-calls.
Harold felt a little bit left out as he was not needed in any capacity at this point: Othello was setting up his laptop at one of the desks while Mercury was writing notes on the whiteboard. India and Prada were assisting him, adding material from their own notebooks. Bored, he wandered over to the printer/copier and started to press buttons for something to do. The machine emitted a series of protesting bleeps.
“Cut that out!” snapped India, “You’ll break it.”
“Sorry,” said Harold, giving the machine an apologetic pat. “Human technology fascinates me – actually, I say ‘human’, but I’m pretty sure some of my kind had a hand in designing these things.”
“I can believe it.” Said Mr Teeth, coming into the room. “Damn thing’s given me nothing but grief since I got it,” He set down his own laptop on the other desk. “One of these days I’m gonna take it out back and shoot it, I swear.”
Mercury glanced at his watch.
“I wonder what’s keeping Box.” He said, “He should be here by now.”
Box almost lost control of the bike as pain exploded in his right leg. So they hadn’t missed, after all! Well that confirmed it – as if it needed confirming - the so-called Infinity Recycling people were definitely NOT legit.
He wrestled the veering machine back onto a straight course, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with an oncoming truck, which blared its horn at him. He risked a quick glance down at his leg. It didn’t look too bad down there – he could see a hole torn in the calf of his boot where whatever they had fired at him had gone in and there didn’t seem to be much blood as yet. Maybe the damage wasn’t too severe, just very painful.
An intersection was coming up. Carefully, Box moved his foot to see if he could still change gear, and almost lost control once more as even the tentative pressure he had applied to the gear shifter caused the pain to double. Suddenly, he felt sick and could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over. Shock. This was not good. Not good at all. He should stop before he had an accident. Fortunately, there was no other traffic at the intersection and he was able to sail straight through.
He glanced in his mirror. Was that white car following him? He tried to remember the make of the car that had stopped outside the house, but couldn’t – he’d only seen it for a few moments anyway. Ok, if the car was from Infinity, he couldn’t afford to stop or they’d catch him for sure and they were playing for keeps, that much was obvious. Neither could he just ride to Mr Jackson’s house, the whole idea of moving there was to throw RolexBoy et al off their trail so he couldn’t risk them following him there.
What to do, what to do. He was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. If he didn’t do something soon, all decisions would be taken out of his hands when he fell off the bike – as seemed more and more likely.
He made a left.
The white car turned in after him.
He made a right.
The white car followed him.
“Zeus’s Golden Gonads.” He breathed. “Gimme a break!”
There was only one thing for it. There’d be all kinds of awkward questions of course, but the way things were going, it was the only sane choice.
He made another right and headed downtown.
Not going to moan about the words - I chose them, after all. No, my struggle this week was with my ongoing story - which way to send the action. That's the trouble with making stuff up as you go instead of planing it all out, I guess.
Anyway, for next week's words and this week's players go to Raven's Nest as usual.
The Mini (Ipad, Chinese whispers, CD, sparkling, cat food)
Tim’s birthday was coming up and Emma was fresh out of ideas. She knew he really wanted one of those new IPad thingies but there was no way she could afford one of those, not this year. In previous years, when she had still been earning the big bucks at the bank, she would plan Tim’s Birthday Experience, as she called it, like a military operation. Weeks in advance, she would start a campaign of Chinese whispers and disinformation. She would drop hints about what she was getting him to all their mutual friends – a different and inaccurate hint to each. She would leave her internet browser conveniently pointing at a page containing the latest in sparkling gadgetry, she would linger meaningfully outside the most trendy men’s clothing shops when she and Tim were out and about together , things like that. Then she would surprise him with something completely different like a ballooning holiday in Africa or a piece of jewellery of her own designing which she had had specially made for him. This year would have to be different though, there just wasn’t the money for that kind of thing any more. The bank had ‘downsized’ her and Tim’s music career was yet to take off, his debut CD hadn’t even made the playlist of the local radio station. Emma sighed, put the can of Kit-e-Chow budget cat food back on its shelf and picked up the usual more expensive Kit-e-Licious Aberdeen Angus Steaklets in Tasty Jelly. There were some things she wasn’t going to cut back on, no matter how hard the times were. Besides, there was a competition on the Kit-e-Licious pack and the first prize was an IPad. You never knew.
The 10-Worder (talented, oak, speaker, junk, wrapper, pencil, ocean, chatter, bullet, steamy)
New to Harold? The story so far is here.
The agents and Harold let themselves into Mr Teeth’s house.
Othello gave a softly appreciative whistle upon surveying the interior with its cool white walls, blond wood and abstract paintings.
“The man certainly does have taste,” he said, shaking his head wonderingly.
“Are you kidding?” said Prada, scornfully, “These pictures look like they were done by a monkey – no offence, Mr Teatime.”
“None taken,” replied Teatime, “I would venture the same opinion myself. I mean to say, just look at that one over there, all bluey-grey splodges. What on earth is all that about?”
“That’s ‘Bullet the Ocean’ by Tom Windermere, you philistines!” said Othello, walking over to the picture.
“One of his early pieces. He was very talented.”
“Was?” asked Prada, “Was? Don’t say he died a tragic death, too! What is it with these creative types always dropping off their perches early.”
“The brightest lights burn the shortest, I guess,” said Othello. Prada made a rude noise.
“Well, he should have lived to be a hundred then, looking at this.”
“Art doesn’t have to be photographically representational, you know,” Othello began to reply with some heat, but all the chatter was cut short as the house’s front door swung open and Mr Teeth came in.
He showed them all to a large, airy room that would serve them as an office for the duration.
“Let me just clear away this junk,” he said, and began sweeping bits and pieces – a broken pencil, a candy bar wrapper or several, some screwed-up sticky notes, bent paper clips and whatnot – that littered the two large oak desks into a waste bin.
“We got wireless networking here,” he continued, “Passphrase is ‘Steamy Windows’ and when Othello raised an eyebrow, he added “Don’t ask!”
“Thanks,” said Mercury, and they began to set up.
The room was well-equipped. Apart from the desks and chairs, there was a whiteboard and dry-wipe markers, a printer/copier and one of those phones with an external speaker for conference-calls.
Harold felt a little bit left out as he was not needed in any capacity at this point: Othello was setting up his laptop at one of the desks while Mercury was writing notes on the whiteboard. India and Prada were assisting him, adding material from their own notebooks. Bored, he wandered over to the printer/copier and started to press buttons for something to do. The machine emitted a series of protesting bleeps.
“Cut that out!” snapped India, “You’ll break it.”
“Sorry,” said Harold, giving the machine an apologetic pat. “Human technology fascinates me – actually, I say ‘human’, but I’m pretty sure some of my kind had a hand in designing these things.”
“I can believe it.” Said Mr Teeth, coming into the room. “Damn thing’s given me nothing but grief since I got it,” He set down his own laptop on the other desk. “One of these days I’m gonna take it out back and shoot it, I swear.”
Mercury glanced at his watch.
“I wonder what’s keeping Box.” He said, “He should be here by now.”
-0-0-0-
Box almost lost control of the bike as pain exploded in his right leg. So they hadn’t missed, after all! Well that confirmed it – as if it needed confirming - the so-called Infinity Recycling people were definitely NOT legit.
He wrestled the veering machine back onto a straight course, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with an oncoming truck, which blared its horn at him. He risked a quick glance down at his leg. It didn’t look too bad down there – he could see a hole torn in the calf of his boot where whatever they had fired at him had gone in and there didn’t seem to be much blood as yet. Maybe the damage wasn’t too severe, just very painful.
An intersection was coming up. Carefully, Box moved his foot to see if he could still change gear, and almost lost control once more as even the tentative pressure he had applied to the gear shifter caused the pain to double. Suddenly, he felt sick and could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over. Shock. This was not good. Not good at all. He should stop before he had an accident. Fortunately, there was no other traffic at the intersection and he was able to sail straight through.
He glanced in his mirror. Was that white car following him? He tried to remember the make of the car that had stopped outside the house, but couldn’t – he’d only seen it for a few moments anyway. Ok, if the car was from Infinity, he couldn’t afford to stop or they’d catch him for sure and they were playing for keeps, that much was obvious. Neither could he just ride to Mr Jackson’s house, the whole idea of moving there was to throw RolexBoy et al off their trail so he couldn’t risk them following him there.
What to do, what to do. He was beginning to feel dizzy and lightheaded. If he didn’t do something soon, all decisions would be taken out of his hands when he fell off the bike – as seemed more and more likely.
He made a left.
The white car turned in after him.
He made a right.
The white car followed him.
“Zeus’s Golden Gonads.” He breathed. “Gimme a break!”
There was only one thing for it. There’d be all kinds of awkward questions of course, but the way things were going, it was the only sane choice.
He made another right and headed downtown.
Saturday, 2 October 2010
Weekly Wordzzle 129
And just like that, my week's holiday has evaporated quicker than something that evaporates, well, really quickly.
And so on to the motley that is the Weekly Wordzzle challenge. As usual, go to Raven's Nest to see next week's words and this week's players.
The Mini (march, bald headed man, bones, photo album, mail box)
Box looked up from where he was crouching behind the kitchen counter. The door from the kitchen to the garage was about ten feet away. Quietly and quickly, he began to move towards the door, keeping an eye on the kitchen window to ensure that the woman that had rung the front door bell didn't see him moving and raise the alarm.
As he dodged through the garage door, he heard the squeak of the French doors opening. He'd not had a moment to waste then. He carefully, oh-so carefully, eased the door so that it was nearly, but not completely closed, and listened.
He heard the man walk from the living room into the hall, straight past the kitchen door and then there came the sound of the front door opening.
"Doesn't seem to be anybody here but us chickens," said the man, and Box heard the woman walk into the house.
"Doesn't mean there isn't, Church," she replied, ignoring his tongue-in-cheek manner. "RolexBoy's info is usually good and these things are capable of hiding in plain sight if it suits them. With the field up, it can't get away, so all we have to do is find it. Here, take this and do the downstairs and I'll do the upstairs."
What 'this' was, Box couldn't see, of course, but soon he could hear Church moving around the living room and every now and then there was an electronic beep. The woman had trotted up the stairs and Box could hear her moving around up there, too. Were they using some kind of scanning device? If so, what were they scanning for? And what was this 'field' the woman had mentioned?
Box could feel his heart pounding. It wouldn't take long for Church to work his way round the living room and kitchen. If he was to make his escape, it would have to be soon.
The bike was parked where he'd left it, facing towards the back of the garage, which was awkward. If he was going to ride it out the front, he would have to turn it around, which would take precious time. Then there was the garage door itself. He had the remote control in his pocket, but the door would take a while to open enough for him to get out and that would also give plenty of warning to the Infinity Recycling people that something was up.
He glanced around the garage. Its shelves were a typical dumping ground of domestic bric-a-brac: candles, matches, half-used tins of paint, barbecue charcoal, lighter fluid, rags, an old car battery, a tow-rope. For a moment, Box considered using some of the combustibles to create a diversion, but quickly dismissed the idea as too dangerous (plus the house belonged to a friend, after all). Then his eye fell on something he had not noticed before. A hand-lettered placard bearing the slogan 'Save our Schools' was leaning up against... another door! The garage had a door into the back yard, then.
Box quickly moved the placard out of the way. The door looked just about wide enough. He tried the door handle. Locked. Box scanned around desperately. There, on the wall, a key hanging on a nail. Box grabbed it and fitted it quickly into the lock. At first it seemed to be stuck but with a grunt, Box managed to get it to turn. He shouldered the door open and grabbed the handlebars of the bike to wheel it out.
At that moment, the door from the kitchen opened and Church stepped through. His eyes were fixed on some kind of hand-held device so it took a moment for Box's presence in the garage to register.
A moment was all Box needed.
A half-used tin of 'Hint of Peach' completed its short ballistic trajectory and struck Church cleanly in the face. Startled, dazed and in pain, he staggered backwards with a roar. Crashing into the shelves behind him, he managed to dislodge their contents which showered down on him in an impressive display which, if someone had filmed it, would have been a sure fire hit on YouTube.
Not waiting around to admire his handiwork, Box quickly lugged the bike out through the door. Once outside, he jumped aboard, fired it up and with a roar was quickly round the side of the house and heading down the drive to the road.
In the bike's mirrors, he saw the doors of the big white Infinity Recycling truck fly open and a couple of white overall-clad figures leap out. One of then seemed to be pointing something at him, but they were too late by a country mile.
He grinned. Ha! Still a little life in the old dog yet, then!
He was still grinning when the pain hit.
And so on to the motley that is the Weekly Wordzzle challenge. As usual, go to Raven's Nest to see next week's words and this week's players.
The Mini (march, bald headed man, bones, photo album, mail box)
Mungo March, inventor of the Amazing Self-Sorting Mail Box, was resigned to the fact that, as a short, tubby, bald headed man of mature years – albeit a very rich one - he was no catch for the ladies. Madame Cecile, the immaculately quoiffed and groomed owner of Happy Hearts Dating Agency made no bones about this fact and had warned him not to expect too much. Still, he continued to leaf hopefully through the photo album of the agency's lady clients, just in case. Cecile watched him for a while. They were always so desperate, the ugly ones, she thought, so needy. Then it ocurred to her that perhaps this one was just needy enough for the other book, the one she kept at the back of the drawer. She retrieved it and laid it on the desk. "These are some of our more difficult to match ladies," she said. Mungo opened the album and began to turn the pages. Face after beautiful face appeared before his astonished eyes. "These women are gorgeous!" he exclaimed, "But surely, they wouldn't look at me twice!" Cecile smiled, "They wouldn't look at you at all, Mr March," she said, "All of these lovely young ladies are as blind as love itself."
The 10-Worder (church, tongue in cheek, butterflies, charcoal, neurotic, save our schools, candles, solitaire, matches, chatter box )
New to Harold? The story so far is here.
A whole squadron of butterflies was scrambling in the aerodrome of Box's stomach – it had been a long time since he'd been involved in all this cloak and dagger nonsense on a regular basis. He heard the Infinity Recycling man's hand rattle the handle of the French doors, groping for the key which he, Box, had foolishly left in the lock. The man would be inside the house in moments. Box remembered one of his old partners - Agent Solitaire, a neurotic chatter box of a man – telling him that the best defence is not to be there.
Sound advice.
Box looked up from where he was crouching behind the kitchen counter. The door from the kitchen to the garage was about ten feet away. Quietly and quickly, he began to move towards the door, keeping an eye on the kitchen window to ensure that the woman that had rung the front door bell didn't see him moving and raise the alarm.
As he dodged through the garage door, he heard the squeak of the French doors opening. He'd not had a moment to waste then. He carefully, oh-so carefully, eased the door so that it was nearly, but not completely closed, and listened.
He heard the man walk from the living room into the hall, straight past the kitchen door and then there came the sound of the front door opening.
"Doesn't seem to be anybody here but us chickens," said the man, and Box heard the woman walk into the house.
"Doesn't mean there isn't, Church," she replied, ignoring his tongue-in-cheek manner. "RolexBoy's info is usually good and these things are capable of hiding in plain sight if it suits them. With the field up, it can't get away, so all we have to do is find it. Here, take this and do the downstairs and I'll do the upstairs."
What 'this' was, Box couldn't see, of course, but soon he could hear Church moving around the living room and every now and then there was an electronic beep. The woman had trotted up the stairs and Box could hear her moving around up there, too. Were they using some kind of scanning device? If so, what were they scanning for? And what was this 'field' the woman had mentioned?
Box could feel his heart pounding. It wouldn't take long for Church to work his way round the living room and kitchen. If he was to make his escape, it would have to be soon.
The bike was parked where he'd left it, facing towards the back of the garage, which was awkward. If he was going to ride it out the front, he would have to turn it around, which would take precious time. Then there was the garage door itself. He had the remote control in his pocket, but the door would take a while to open enough for him to get out and that would also give plenty of warning to the Infinity Recycling people that something was up.
He glanced around the garage. Its shelves were a typical dumping ground of domestic bric-a-brac: candles, matches, half-used tins of paint, barbecue charcoal, lighter fluid, rags, an old car battery, a tow-rope. For a moment, Box considered using some of the combustibles to create a diversion, but quickly dismissed the idea as too dangerous (plus the house belonged to a friend, after all). Then his eye fell on something he had not noticed before. A hand-lettered placard bearing the slogan 'Save our Schools' was leaning up against... another door! The garage had a door into the back yard, then.
Box quickly moved the placard out of the way. The door looked just about wide enough. He tried the door handle. Locked. Box scanned around desperately. There, on the wall, a key hanging on a nail. Box grabbed it and fitted it quickly into the lock. At first it seemed to be stuck but with a grunt, Box managed to get it to turn. He shouldered the door open and grabbed the handlebars of the bike to wheel it out.
At that moment, the door from the kitchen opened and Church stepped through. His eyes were fixed on some kind of hand-held device so it took a moment for Box's presence in the garage to register.
A moment was all Box needed.
A half-used tin of 'Hint of Peach' completed its short ballistic trajectory and struck Church cleanly in the face. Startled, dazed and in pain, he staggered backwards with a roar. Crashing into the shelves behind him, he managed to dislodge their contents which showered down on him in an impressive display which, if someone had filmed it, would have been a sure fire hit on YouTube.
Not waiting around to admire his handiwork, Box quickly lugged the bike out through the door. Once outside, he jumped aboard, fired it up and with a roar was quickly round the side of the house and heading down the drive to the road.
In the bike's mirrors, he saw the doors of the big white Infinity Recycling truck fly open and a couple of white overall-clad figures leap out. One of then seemed to be pointing something at him, but they were too late by a country mile.
He grinned. Ha! Still a little life in the old dog yet, then!
He was still grinning when the pain hit.
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.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
The Poetry Bus - Magic Roundabout Spin
This week's excursion aboard the noble charabanc of dreams is hosted by Rachel Fox, poet extraordinare who set us a challenge here to produce something based around childhood characters or stories.
Go here for all the other passengers. Now then, let's see.
Hmmm.
As a kid, I loved things like Star Trek, Space: 1999 (it's OK, I've over that one now) and my most beloved toys were Major Matt Mason and Action Man. Could these be the stuff of poetry? Errr. No.
OK, come on think, think!
Nothing?
Ok, DON'T think, maybe that's the key. Hmm, now that the monkey-chattering has stopped, just on the edge of my mental hearing comes the tiniest thread of a tune, dragging an idea along in its wake....
The rough-as-old-boots recording of this song is the last track in my ReverbNation widget over on the right. I sound like I have a cold, but I don't.
MAGIC ROUNDABOUT SPIN
Remember when we were just children,
With our heads full of nursery rhyme.
And with each summer's day came a new game to play,
With always one more tree to climb.
There was always some water to splash in,
A net full of newts we would catch.
Scrumping our tea from the old apple tree
As our secrets and plots we would hatch.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Spin me a magical tale.
Magic Faraway Tree, oh, won't you carry me
To that country where good things prevail.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Let me ride and play 'let us pretend'
Magic Faraway Tree, oh won't you carry me
Can't you turn back the clock, my old friend?
But we grew up as all children should do,
And we put aside those childish things.
The swings and the slides, all the places to hide
No more pulling off butterflies' wings.
Now the years, they have spun by in seconds,
All are gone in the blink of an eye.
We grew up, learnt a trade, there were bills to be paid
No more dreaming of pie in the sky.
Now the roundabout stands still and silent
Its music no more shall I hear.
The Faraway tree will not blossom for me
It's too late to replant it I Fear.
For time's arrow will fly only forwards
This is the lesson we learn
The play and the laughter are for those who come after
The roundabout gave us our turn.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Whirling orange and yellow and red.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Till Zebedee says 'Time for bed'.
OK, it still needs work and it's a lot of old cliched cobblers, but there it is.
Go here for all the other passengers. Now then, let's see.
Hmmm.
As a kid, I loved things like Star Trek, Space: 1999 (it's OK, I've over that one now) and my most beloved toys were Major Matt Mason and Action Man. Could these be the stuff of poetry? Errr. No.
OK, come on think, think!
Nothing?
Ok, DON'T think, maybe that's the key. Hmm, now that the monkey-chattering has stopped, just on the edge of my mental hearing comes the tiniest thread of a tune, dragging an idea along in its wake....
The rough-as-old-boots recording of this song is the last track in my ReverbNation widget over on the right. I sound like I have a cold, but I don't.
MAGIC ROUNDABOUT SPIN
Remember when we were just children,
With our heads full of nursery rhyme.
And with each summer's day came a new game to play,
With always one more tree to climb.
There was always some water to splash in,
A net full of newts we would catch.
Scrumping our tea from the old apple tree
As our secrets and plots we would hatch.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Spin me a magical tale.
Magic Faraway Tree, oh, won't you carry me
To that country where good things prevail.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Let me ride and play 'let us pretend'
Magic Faraway Tree, oh won't you carry me
Can't you turn back the clock, my old friend?
But we grew up as all children should do,
And we put aside those childish things.
The swings and the slides, all the places to hide
No more pulling off butterflies' wings.
Now the years, they have spun by in seconds,
All are gone in the blink of an eye.
We grew up, learnt a trade, there were bills to be paid
No more dreaming of pie in the sky.
Now the roundabout stands still and silent
Its music no more shall I hear.
The Faraway tree will not blossom for me
It's too late to replant it I Fear.
For time's arrow will fly only forwards
This is the lesson we learn
The play and the laughter are for those who come after
The roundabout gave us our turn.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Whirling orange and yellow and red.
Magic Roundabout spin for the last time,
Till Zebedee says 'Time for bed'.
OK, it still needs work and it's a lot of old cliched cobblers, but there it is.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Weekly Wordzzle 128
Finally reached the end of a busy week and the good news is I've got a whole week off work next week.
Didn't have as much trouble as I expected with the words, I did manage to get them used up. The mini was fairly easy to do. However, the award for Most Contrived Coversation Written Purely to Dispose of Wordzzle Words goes to....me, for my effort in the 10-worder this week.
Anyway, for next week's challenge and this week's players, go to Raven's Nest.
The Mini (drab, dutiful, dusty, delicatessen, dart board)
“Greta!” yelled Mr Litowski, “Get your fat lazy ass out here, woman! We got customers!” If he shouted that once in a day, he must have shouted it a hundred times, and Mrs L, a tiny brown mouse of a woman, would come scuttling out from the back room.
I had been calling at Litowski’s Delicatessen for my morning bagel every day for twenty years and in all that time, I can honestly say I had never once heard Mr L utter a sentence to his wife that did not contain an insult of some kind. The Delicatessen itself was a timeless kind of place, hardly changed since that day back in 1962 when the Litowskis - hopeful young newlyweds then – first opened its doors. Although it was kept spotless by the eternally scrubbing Mrs L, the faded paintwork and worn counters made the place seem drab and dusty somehow. Outwardly, Mrs L herself was not much different from the Deli – drab and dusty-looking. Drab, dusty, and every inch the dutiful wife, wilted from years of shouted abuse.
One day, when she was on her own in the shop, I asked Mrs L how on earth she put up with her husband’s yelling all these years. She smiled and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but every day I go into the attic - Jan cannot manage the stairs so good, you know, so he never goes up there. I play darts for one whole hour. I go up sad, I come down happy.” Seeing my look of incomprehension, she gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Guess whose picture is stuck to the dart board.”
The 10-Worder (English, edible, eagerly, elves, eulogy, estimable, entrance, education, extra-special, Energizer Bunny)
New to Harold? The story so far is here.
Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada, along with Harold and Teatime stood outside the entrance to Mr Teeth’s palatial home. India had gone over to the ornamental pool to fish for the keys.
“Who would have thought Mr Jackson would have such refined tastes,” said Othello, casting an appreciative eye over the bold pink lines of the house with its randomly placed circular Swiss-cheese-hole windows. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the work of Nina Roden.”
“Who?” asked Prada.
“Nina Roden,” replied Othello, “An English architect, she worked out of Los Angeles. She liked to design buildings that look ‘edible’. She did the McCleod Higher Education Centre .”
“I don’t think I know it,” said Prada,
“The Chocolate Bar?” Othello prompted.
“Oh, right! That one!” laughed Prada, “I’d say she succeeded there – it really does look kind of yummy.”
“Yeah,” sighed Othello, “Pity she didn’t live to see it finished. She died of a brain tumour a couple of years back. Nobody even knew she had it: one day she was running round like the Energizer Bunny, the next – “ he made a gesture of hopelessness. “She left a lot of really exciting buildings behind, though. I guess they’re her eulogy in a way.”
“It must be nice to leave behind something lasting.” Said Prada, thoughtfully, “I wonder what people’ll say about me when I’m gone, nothing extra-special, I bet. My parents think I’m in the noble and estimable profession of Day Trading , for goodness sake! Hardly the stuff of legend!”
“You’ve never told them what you do?” said Othello.
“Are you kidding?” laughed Prada, “They’d freak out. They don’t believe in demons or anything like that. Listen, when all my kindergarten friends were getting bedtime stories full of magic elves, dragons and princesses, my dad would send me off to sleep with the Wall Street Journal!”
“That must have been awful,” said Mercury, appalled.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Prada brightly, “I made my first million on the stock exchange before I was eighteen.”
Just then, India returned with a dripping plastic bag containing the house keys. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the stunned looks on the faces of everyone but Prada, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“OK,” she said eagerly, “What’d I miss?”
Didn't have as much trouble as I expected with the words, I did manage to get them used up. The mini was fairly easy to do. However, the award for Most Contrived Coversation Written Purely to Dispose of Wordzzle Words goes to....me, for my effort in the 10-worder this week.
Anyway, for next week's challenge and this week's players, go to Raven's Nest.
The Mini (drab, dutiful, dusty, delicatessen, dart board)
“Greta!” yelled Mr Litowski, “Get your fat lazy ass out here, woman! We got customers!” If he shouted that once in a day, he must have shouted it a hundred times, and Mrs L, a tiny brown mouse of a woman, would come scuttling out from the back room.
I had been calling at Litowski’s Delicatessen for my morning bagel every day for twenty years and in all that time, I can honestly say I had never once heard Mr L utter a sentence to his wife that did not contain an insult of some kind. The Delicatessen itself was a timeless kind of place, hardly changed since that day back in 1962 when the Litowskis - hopeful young newlyweds then – first opened its doors. Although it was kept spotless by the eternally scrubbing Mrs L, the faded paintwork and worn counters made the place seem drab and dusty somehow. Outwardly, Mrs L herself was not much different from the Deli – drab and dusty-looking. Drab, dusty, and every inch the dutiful wife, wilted from years of shouted abuse.
One day, when she was on her own in the shop, I asked Mrs L how on earth she put up with her husband’s yelling all these years. She smiled and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but every day I go into the attic - Jan cannot manage the stairs so good, you know, so he never goes up there. I play darts for one whole hour. I go up sad, I come down happy.” Seeing my look of incomprehension, she gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Guess whose picture is stuck to the dart board.”
The 10-Worder (English, edible, eagerly, elves, eulogy, estimable, entrance, education, extra-special, Energizer Bunny)
New to Harold? The story so far is here.
Agents Mercury, Othello and Prada, along with Harold and Teatime stood outside the entrance to Mr Teeth’s palatial home. India had gone over to the ornamental pool to fish for the keys.
“Who would have thought Mr Jackson would have such refined tastes,” said Othello, casting an appreciative eye over the bold pink lines of the house with its randomly placed circular Swiss-cheese-hole windows. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the work of Nina Roden.”
“Who?” asked Prada.
“Nina Roden,” replied Othello, “An English architect, she worked out of Los Angeles. She liked to design buildings that look ‘edible’. She did the McCleod Higher Education Centre .”
“I don’t think I know it,” said Prada,
“The Chocolate Bar?” Othello prompted.
“Oh, right! That one!” laughed Prada, “I’d say she succeeded there – it really does look kind of yummy.”
“Yeah,” sighed Othello, “Pity she didn’t live to see it finished. She died of a brain tumour a couple of years back. Nobody even knew she had it: one day she was running round like the Energizer Bunny, the next – “ he made a gesture of hopelessness. “She left a lot of really exciting buildings behind, though. I guess they’re her eulogy in a way.”
“It must be nice to leave behind something lasting.” Said Prada, thoughtfully, “I wonder what people’ll say about me when I’m gone, nothing extra-special, I bet. My parents think I’m in the noble and estimable profession of Day Trading , for goodness sake! Hardly the stuff of legend!”
“You’ve never told them what you do?” said Othello.
“Are you kidding?” laughed Prada, “They’d freak out. They don’t believe in demons or anything like that. Listen, when all my kindergarten friends were getting bedtime stories full of magic elves, dragons and princesses, my dad would send me off to sleep with the Wall Street Journal!”
“That must have been awful,” said Mercury, appalled.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Prada brightly, “I made my first million on the stock exchange before I was eighteen.”
Just then, India returned with a dripping plastic bag containing the house keys. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the stunned looks on the faces of everyone but Prada, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“OK,” she said eagerly, “What’d I miss?”
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