What a difference a day makes.
On Tuesday, I was working on a piece of code for a client, a piece of code that should have been easy.
Should have been.
Thing was: no matter what I did with it, the darn thing Just. Would. Not. Run.
I eyeballed it line by line, I printed it out and scrutinised it line by line (for some reason, printouts seem easier to read than screens) but, for the life of me, I could not see where the problem was.
Now, this kind of thing really bugs me. Being able to cut code is one of the things that I feel proud of and it’s kind of central to my image of myself as a competent techie (OK, I acknowledge the fact that most people wouldn’t WANT that to be part of their core belief about themselves, but there it is). Like it or not, it's a key part of my self-worth.
This, of course, fuelled my mule-stubborn refusal to admit defeat. It was after-hours, so bugging someone else with the problem wasn’t really an option either. I was getting increasingly angry with myself for not being able to fix this stupid bit of code.
After a while, the insistent sound of my own fool head knocking against a brick wall finally woke me up to the fact that I was getting nowhere and, after a long day (getting longer with each resounding thud) the likelihood of a breakthrough was becoming increasingly remote.
So, with a heavy heart, I logged out and went home.
It was not the search for the Higgs Boson.
It was not the search for the cure for cancer
It was just a stupid bit of code to allow some people in a stupid call centre to see potentially challenging cases coming up.
Big Whoop.
But it had beaten me and I felt rubbish.
The people in my head smelt blood in the water: my inner child threw itself on the ground and unleashed an epic tantrum while my inner critic got out his Big Book of Everything that’s Crap About You and began to read it in his foghorn of a voice.
The bad feelings pervaded the the evening at home like a kind of vile octopus ink; sometimes seemingly gone, only to swirl in and darken the water unpredictably the next moment. It was nearly bedtime before the passing of time (assisted by a good session on the ukulele) diluted it.
I know I was ascribing way more importance to the incident than it deserved.
I know there are millions starving and homeless in the world.
I know I should be grateful for the good life that I have (and am, actually, very).
All good reasons to stop whingeing and get on with my life.
But reason doesn’t enter into it.
Next day, as you might guess, the problem could not have been more obvious if it had been waving a red flag whilst riding a white elephant at the head of parade featuring the massed marching bands of the Royal Marines.
And the sun was shining.
Maybe it was because of that, or maybe my inner child and inner critic had simply taken the day off to go to the beach or something, but either way, I felt good all of a sudden.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Friday, 6 July 2012
A New Home in the Sky - Nowt as Queer as Folk
My boss and I have many things in common: same number of legs (two, in case you were worried); we went to the same school/terror training camp, and we both enjoy eating our breakfast granola dry – no milk, no cream, no crème fraiche, no yoghurt nor any other dairy-based contaminant.
This fact in itself is not hugely important, but I needed something to start this entry off with, right?
Anyway, the other day, we just are about to tuck in when we discover ourselves to be spoonless. I duly volunteer to rectify the situation by means of a quick raid on the staff kitchen.
“Don’t get any of the spoons with the blue handles,” says the Boss.
I should have been a bit suspicious at this point, but OK, no spoon with a blue handle it is. He’s da Boss, after all.
Trouble is, I’m totally colour-blind, so I have no idea which of our many and delightfully diverse collection of Spoons Through the Ages have blue handles. So, upon arriving at the kitchen (which has a pool table in it, incidentally) I cleverly decide to duck the issue by bringing back an all-metal spoon. No colour means no BLUE colour, right?
Damn, I'm so sharp it's a wonder I don't cut myself!
I sashay back to the office, smugly bearing a couple of metal spoons as if they are some kind of breakfast-y Olympic Torch.
Pride goeth before a fall…
Boss looks at the proffered utensil and shakes his head.
“But it’s definitely not got a blue handle,” I protest, “You said no blue handle, this has… no blue handle.” I wave it about a bit for emphasis.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “But I have this phobia about all-metal cutlery.”
You see what I have to put up with?
This fact in itself is not hugely important, but I needed something to start this entry off with, right?
Anyway, the other day, we just are about to tuck in when we discover ourselves to be spoonless. I duly volunteer to rectify the situation by means of a quick raid on the staff kitchen.
“Don’t get any of the spoons with the blue handles,” says the Boss.
I should have been a bit suspicious at this point, but OK, no spoon with a blue handle it is. He’s da Boss, after all.
Trouble is, I’m totally colour-blind, so I have no idea which of our many and delightfully diverse collection of Spoons Through the Ages have blue handles. So, upon arriving at the kitchen (which has a pool table in it, incidentally) I cleverly decide to duck the issue by bringing back an all-metal spoon. No colour means no BLUE colour, right?
Damn, I'm so sharp it's a wonder I don't cut myself!
I sashay back to the office, smugly bearing a couple of metal spoons as if they are some kind of breakfast-y Olympic Torch.
Pride goeth before a fall…
Boss looks at the proffered utensil and shakes his head.
“But it’s definitely not got a blue handle,” I protest, “You said no blue handle, this has… no blue handle.” I wave it about a bit for emphasis.
“Yeah,” he sighs, “But I have this phobia about all-metal cutlery.”
You see what I have to put up with?
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
When Cakes Square Off...
I'd like to introduce this cartoon with some intelligent, witty commentary about how I thought it up, but I can't. I was eating cake, that's all.
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Finally - A Harold Episode
If you've not been following this story, you can catch up using the Story So Far link, top right sidebar.
The van rumbled to a halt at the security barrier outside Infinity Recycling. A uniformed guard emerged from the gatehouse and approached. Box nudged the barrel against the van driver's ribs and hissed at him not to try any funny business. The driver wound down the van's window as the guard approached, and held up his id.
The guard examined it briefly, checked the photo against the driver’s face, nodded and went back into the gatehouse. A few moments later, the barrier swung up and the white van rolled into the compound.
'Take us to where you'd go if your mission had been successful,' ordered Box.
The driver nodded and swung the wheel around, piloting the vehicle around to the back of the building. He drew to a halt facing what looked to be a blank wall. Box looked at him quizzically. the man shrugged and pressed a button on the van's key fob.
Ahead of them, two sections of the wall slid apart, revealing a well-lit tunnel within.
'Wow, that was certainly well disguised,' murmured India from the back of the van. The vehicle jolted into motion once more and they headed into the tunnel which curved away to the right and sharply downwards.
Prada was pacing the room once more.
“It’ll be light soon,” she said to no-one in particular.
No-one bothered to answer her. Mercury was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, while Othello stared out of the window. A few triangular sandwich packets littered the long conference table, along with a few cans of drink.
Since a silent guard had dropped off the food and drink, they had been left to themselves. Prada sighed and moved to stand next to Othello at the window. There wasn’t much to see; the window looked out into an internal courtyard which boasted a patch of grass, some planting and a few seats – presumably for the Infinity staff members to take breaks.
“I can’t help feeling we should be doing more,” she continued.
“Like what?” asked Othello. “We can’t get out, we can’t contact anyone. Best we wait it out for now and see what happens.”
Prada sighed and turned to face into the room once more. Out or boredom, she let her eyes wander where they would, although she didn’t expect to see anything she hadn’t seen before: long, polished conference table; squeaky leather conference chairs, cupboards with nothing in them. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. It was the usual suspended affair made up of tiles interspersed with long fluorescent light fittings.
“Could we get out through there?” she wondered aloud.
Othello turned to see what she was looking at.
“Doubt it,” he said, “The space above isn’t that big and I don’t think the structure would bear any of our weight.”
“Pity,” Prada sighed. Then she drew in a quick breath, before speaking in a low voice. “What about that?”
She pointed at the centre of the ceiling where a small round smoke detector protruded from the middle of a tile.
“Interesting,” agreed Othello, also in a low voice “but unless you’ve got some boy scouts to rub together…”
“I just might have,” grinned Prada.
She grabbed her jacket from where it hung on the back of one of the chairs and began ferreting in one of the pockets.
“A-ha!” she whispered, triumphantly, holding up a small, flat square of folded cardboard.
“Who knew a hole in one’s pocket could actually be useful?”
Othello stepped over to get a better view as Prada opened out the cardboard.
“Thank you, Crazy Jake’s Bar and Grill,” she breathed.
Inside the cardboard there were two matches
They left their erstwhile chauffeur gagged and bound in the rear of the van. There was a solid-looking door set in one wall of the basement car park and Mr Teeth and Box headed over to it. A few steps behind them, Harold and India followed.
A quick swipe of the Infinity goon’s id card resulted in a most satisfying clunk as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged. Box pushed the door open to reveal an empty, brightly-lit hallway leading away into the building’s interior.
“Looks clear enough,” grunted Mr Teeth.
He went through the door, followed by the others. Behind them, the door swung closed on its spring, locking with a click. Box glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes,” he said quietly.
Mr Teeth grunted acknowledgement.
The little party made its way along the hallway, Mr Teeth and Box leading, followed by an invisible India and Harold. They soon reached an intersection of corridors. There was nothing much to indicate the best way for them to go to find Mercury and the others. The goon hadn’t known – or had pretended not to know – where they would have been taken.
“There are some stairs through those doors up ahead,” said Box, indicating a set of double doors, above which someone had helpfully placed an emergency sign.
They began trotting down the corridor towards the stairwell.
Just as Box reached out his hand to push open the double doors, the air was split by the wail of a klaxon.
“Too early!” yelled Box above the racket. “Go to plan B!”
The van rumbled to a halt at the security barrier outside Infinity Recycling. A uniformed guard emerged from the gatehouse and approached. Box nudged the barrel against the van driver's ribs and hissed at him not to try any funny business. The driver wound down the van's window as the guard approached, and held up his id.
The guard examined it briefly, checked the photo against the driver’s face, nodded and went back into the gatehouse. A few moments later, the barrier swung up and the white van rolled into the compound.
'Take us to where you'd go if your mission had been successful,' ordered Box.
The driver nodded and swung the wheel around, piloting the vehicle around to the back of the building. He drew to a halt facing what looked to be a blank wall. Box looked at him quizzically. the man shrugged and pressed a button on the van's key fob.
Ahead of them, two sections of the wall slid apart, revealing a well-lit tunnel within.
'Wow, that was certainly well disguised,' murmured India from the back of the van. The vehicle jolted into motion once more and they headed into the tunnel which curved away to the right and sharply downwards.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Prada was pacing the room once more.
“It’ll be light soon,” she said to no-one in particular.
No-one bothered to answer her. Mercury was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, while Othello stared out of the window. A few triangular sandwich packets littered the long conference table, along with a few cans of drink.
Since a silent guard had dropped off the food and drink, they had been left to themselves. Prada sighed and moved to stand next to Othello at the window. There wasn’t much to see; the window looked out into an internal courtyard which boasted a patch of grass, some planting and a few seats – presumably for the Infinity staff members to take breaks.
“I can’t help feeling we should be doing more,” she continued.
“Like what?” asked Othello. “We can’t get out, we can’t contact anyone. Best we wait it out for now and see what happens.”
Prada sighed and turned to face into the room once more. Out or boredom, she let her eyes wander where they would, although she didn’t expect to see anything she hadn’t seen before: long, polished conference table; squeaky leather conference chairs, cupboards with nothing in them. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling. It was the usual suspended affair made up of tiles interspersed with long fluorescent light fittings.
“Could we get out through there?” she wondered aloud.
Othello turned to see what she was looking at.
“Doubt it,” he said, “The space above isn’t that big and I don’t think the structure would bear any of our weight.”
“Pity,” Prada sighed. Then she drew in a quick breath, before speaking in a low voice. “What about that?”
She pointed at the centre of the ceiling where a small round smoke detector protruded from the middle of a tile.
“Interesting,” agreed Othello, also in a low voice “but unless you’ve got some boy scouts to rub together…”
“I just might have,” grinned Prada.
She grabbed her jacket from where it hung on the back of one of the chairs and began ferreting in one of the pockets.
“A-ha!” she whispered, triumphantly, holding up a small, flat square of folded cardboard.
“Who knew a hole in one’s pocket could actually be useful?”
Othello stepped over to get a better view as Prada opened out the cardboard.
“Thank you, Crazy Jake’s Bar and Grill,” she breathed.
Inside the cardboard there were two matches
-0-0-0-0-0-
They left their erstwhile chauffeur gagged and bound in the rear of the van. There was a solid-looking door set in one wall of the basement car park and Mr Teeth and Box headed over to it. A few steps behind them, Harold and India followed.
A quick swipe of the Infinity goon’s id card resulted in a most satisfying clunk as the door’s locking mechanism disengaged. Box pushed the door open to reveal an empty, brightly-lit hallway leading away into the building’s interior.
“Looks clear enough,” grunted Mr Teeth.
He went through the door, followed by the others. Behind them, the door swung closed on its spring, locking with a click. Box glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes,” he said quietly.
Mr Teeth grunted acknowledgement.
The little party made its way along the hallway, Mr Teeth and Box leading, followed by an invisible India and Harold. They soon reached an intersection of corridors. There was nothing much to indicate the best way for them to go to find Mercury and the others. The goon hadn’t known – or had pretended not to know – where they would have been taken.
“There are some stairs through those doors up ahead,” said Box, indicating a set of double doors, above which someone had helpfully placed an emergency sign.
They began trotting down the corridor towards the stairwell.
Just as Box reached out his hand to push open the double doors, the air was split by the wail of a klaxon.
“Too early!” yelled Box above the racket. “Go to plan B!”
Thursday, 31 May 2012
I can do THIS with my thumb
This is the text (more or less) of a speech I gave last night at Toastmasters.
It was an ordinary day. I woke up late with a massive hangover, dashed to work, ducked into the ladies to tidy my hair and found my comb was missing.
Now, there are two things about that morning - one strange and one annoying.
The strange thing was that I had a hangover. True, I had been at a works party the previous night – old Professor Farnsworth’s leaving do - but I was sure I'd only drunk lemon and lime all night. My memories were strangely hazy though.
The annoying thing was that my comb was missing. I was annoyed about that because I hate losing things generally and it had been a gift from an old friend.
Anyway, it couldn’t be helped, so I smoothed my hair as best I could, and got on with my day.
This was my first job. I was a lab assistant at the prestigious Wissenschaftler Institute for Genetic Research, not far from here.
Then a few days later, my supervisor told me to take Professor Wissenshaftler his afternoon tea. This was exciting and scary as I hadn’t met him before.
I knocked politely, entered and set down the tray. As I did so, I noticed something sticking out from a pile of papers on his desk.
My Comb!
He’d. Got. My. Comb.
I wanted to ask him about it, but I was very young, very nervous and he was a very intimating figure –a sort of dyspeptic Albert Einstein with the kind of hairstyle you get by sticking your fingers in a plug socket.
So I didn’t dare.
I decided to wait until everyone had gone home and then get it back.
Eventually the time came. I peeped out and sure enough all was deserted, dark and silent. I crept to the professor’s office. Luckily, it wasn’t locked and I was soon once more in possession of my precious comb.
I turned and hurried back out.
It could have been the dark, it could have been my unfamiliarity with the place or even my giddy euphoria at getting the comb back, but I must have gone through the wrong door from the office because I now found myself in a different lab entirely.
I turned round to retrace my steps, but the door had clicked shut behind me and for some reason didn’t open from this side.
In the dimness, I could just make out a door and window at the other end of the room. I hurried over. In case it was a dead end I risked a quick peep through the window to see what lay beyond.
And nearly fell over backwards when a pale face suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass.
I gasped in shock!
It wasn’t just a face it, was MY face!
Then I laughed. The “window” was obviously a mirror, of course. It’s your own reflection, idiot! I told myself. Phew!
When my “reflection” started banging on the glass and shouting Get me out of here, I almost fainted. I rushed to the door and unbolted it.
My double emerged.
She really was just like me. If you’re born a twin you’re probably used to seeing your double, but suddenly to become a twin is eerie to say the least.
She really was my double - even wearing the same green scrubs that we were obliged to wear in the lab.
We had just a few moments to ponder this before all of sudden the lights came on.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” came an angry voice from the doorway behind me. It was professor W, and he had a gun pointed at us.
“I got lost,“ I said lamely.
“Well now you have to die!”
“What?” I cried, “I was just getting my comb back. Can’t you just give me a written warning or something?”
“No, you have discovered my illegal secret human cloning experiment”. He readied the gun.
“Wish I’d not bothered about that blasted comb now.” I said.
“What?” he said.
“The comb I bet you stole from me to get my DNA – I saw it on your desk and was just trying to get it back.”
“You imbecile!” he laughed. “I didn’t take your comb, you dropped it at Farnsworth’s leaving do, I kept meaning to give it back to you.”
“Oh”
“Besides, I needed more than a few stupid hairs. I drugged your drinks at the leaving party, took the samples I needed then popped you back into bed at your house, none the wiser. Now stick out your right thumbs!”
“Why?” we cried in unison.
“Because I only need the original one of you to continue the experiment and I can spot the clone by the extra thumb joint I gave it.”
“But you must know which is which,” I said, “I’m the original, the one that’s been living out in the world, she’s the clone, surely!”
“Not necessarily,” said the prof. “I had a few drinkies at that party myself and can’t remember which of you I kept and which I took back home. The clone has an extra thumb joint. Now stick em out!”
We extended our trembling thumbs and he looked at them for a moment before raising the gun.
I snatched up a nearby Bunsen burner and hurled it at his head as he fired.
The shot went wild and smashed into a bunch of chemical jars which promptly exploded. There was a blinding flash and a thunderous roar. I felt myself flung across the room and everything went black.
I woke up in hospital with concussion and no major injuries other than a crushed right hand. A concret beam had fallen on it apparently. The surgeons fixed it up almost perfectly – apart from the thumb.
They said the explosion at the lab was a gas leak and even though the ruins were carefully searched, no trace of the professor or my twin was ever found.
So, am I the original me – with a broken thumb?
Or am I a clone – complete with the professor’s modification?
Even I’m not sure now.
All I can say is:
I can do THIS with my thumb.
(reveal strangely bendy thumb)
END
This is my actual thumb and it does bend back in an odd way. It does this because as a child I used to make a kind of bridge with my hand on the table and lean my head on it when reading. Over the years of pressing down, the joint acquired a larger range of movement.
That's not as interesting though.
What all this does demonstrate I think, is that you can make a story out of just about anything.
It was an ordinary day. I woke up late with a massive hangover, dashed to work, ducked into the ladies to tidy my hair and found my comb was missing.
Now, there are two things about that morning - one strange and one annoying.
The strange thing was that I had a hangover. True, I had been at a works party the previous night – old Professor Farnsworth’s leaving do - but I was sure I'd only drunk lemon and lime all night. My memories were strangely hazy though.
The annoying thing was that my comb was missing. I was annoyed about that because I hate losing things generally and it had been a gift from an old friend.
Anyway, it couldn’t be helped, so I smoothed my hair as best I could, and got on with my day.
This was my first job. I was a lab assistant at the prestigious Wissenschaftler Institute for Genetic Research, not far from here.
Then a few days later, my supervisor told me to take Professor Wissenshaftler his afternoon tea. This was exciting and scary as I hadn’t met him before.
I knocked politely, entered and set down the tray. As I did so, I noticed something sticking out from a pile of papers on his desk.
My Comb!
He’d. Got. My. Comb.
I wanted to ask him about it, but I was very young, very nervous and he was a very intimating figure –a sort of dyspeptic Albert Einstein with the kind of hairstyle you get by sticking your fingers in a plug socket.
So I didn’t dare.
I decided to wait until everyone had gone home and then get it back.
Eventually the time came. I peeped out and sure enough all was deserted, dark and silent. I crept to the professor’s office. Luckily, it wasn’t locked and I was soon once more in possession of my precious comb.
I turned and hurried back out.
It could have been the dark, it could have been my unfamiliarity with the place or even my giddy euphoria at getting the comb back, but I must have gone through the wrong door from the office because I now found myself in a different lab entirely.
I turned round to retrace my steps, but the door had clicked shut behind me and for some reason didn’t open from this side.
In the dimness, I could just make out a door and window at the other end of the room. I hurried over. In case it was a dead end I risked a quick peep through the window to see what lay beyond.
And nearly fell over backwards when a pale face suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass.
I gasped in shock!
It wasn’t just a face it, was MY face!
Then I laughed. The “window” was obviously a mirror, of course. It’s your own reflection, idiot! I told myself. Phew!
When my “reflection” started banging on the glass and shouting Get me out of here, I almost fainted. I rushed to the door and unbolted it.
My double emerged.
She really was just like me. If you’re born a twin you’re probably used to seeing your double, but suddenly to become a twin is eerie to say the least.
She really was my double - even wearing the same green scrubs that we were obliged to wear in the lab.
We had just a few moments to ponder this before all of sudden the lights came on.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” came an angry voice from the doorway behind me. It was professor W, and he had a gun pointed at us.
“I got lost,“ I said lamely.
“Well now you have to die!”
“What?” I cried, “I was just getting my comb back. Can’t you just give me a written warning or something?”
“No, you have discovered my illegal secret human cloning experiment”. He readied the gun.
“Wish I’d not bothered about that blasted comb now.” I said.
“What?” he said.
“The comb I bet you stole from me to get my DNA – I saw it on your desk and was just trying to get it back.”
“You imbecile!” he laughed. “I didn’t take your comb, you dropped it at Farnsworth’s leaving do, I kept meaning to give it back to you.”
“Oh”
“Besides, I needed more than a few stupid hairs. I drugged your drinks at the leaving party, took the samples I needed then popped you back into bed at your house, none the wiser. Now stick out your right thumbs!”
“Why?” we cried in unison.
“Because I only need the original one of you to continue the experiment and I can spot the clone by the extra thumb joint I gave it.”
“But you must know which is which,” I said, “I’m the original, the one that’s been living out in the world, she’s the clone, surely!”
“Not necessarily,” said the prof. “I had a few drinkies at that party myself and can’t remember which of you I kept and which I took back home. The clone has an extra thumb joint. Now stick em out!”
We extended our trembling thumbs and he looked at them for a moment before raising the gun.
I snatched up a nearby Bunsen burner and hurled it at his head as he fired.
The shot went wild and smashed into a bunch of chemical jars which promptly exploded. There was a blinding flash and a thunderous roar. I felt myself flung across the room and everything went black.
I woke up in hospital with concussion and no major injuries other than a crushed right hand. A concret beam had fallen on it apparently. The surgeons fixed it up almost perfectly – apart from the thumb.
They said the explosion at the lab was a gas leak and even though the ruins were carefully searched, no trace of the professor or my twin was ever found.
So, am I the original me – with a broken thumb?
Or am I a clone – complete with the professor’s modification?
Even I’m not sure now.
All I can say is:
I can do THIS with my thumb.
(reveal strangely bendy thumb)
END
This is my actual thumb and it does bend back in an odd way. It does this because as a child I used to make a kind of bridge with my hand on the table and lean my head on it when reading. Over the years of pressing down, the joint acquired a larger range of movement.
That's not as interesting though.
What all this does demonstrate I think, is that you can make a story out of just about anything.
Monday, 21 May 2012
A Little Optimism
Not to try and be too diabetes-inducingly sweet or anything, but it strikes me that cats are a lot happier than people most of the time.
Jus' sayin'.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Gob-Stopper
This came out of nowhere this morning.
Gob-Stopper
Gob-Stopper
The thought of leaving here,
Leaving you,
Leaving this life,
Rolls around my head.
Like a brand-new gob-stopper.
It holds the promise of long sweetness.
It has not yet lost its bright colour.
But it’s still too big to swallow.
Maybe I’ll just suck on it for a while.
Feel it click against my teeth,
And when it’s small enough.
It’ll go down easy.
Not sure what our American friends call gob-stoppers. They're a big ball of hard candy you suck on, they change colour as you suck. They have a kind of aniseed-y flavour, usually.
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