Back from Leicester, and very very knackered. Today’s pic.
It actually looked and felt like Spring today. At least, it did in a car. It was probably brass monkeys outside.
Back from Leicester, and very very knackered. Today’s pic.
Again, not a lot to say tonight. I’m in Leicester again, I’ve more or less got the route memorised, watching the inputters and fixing problems as and when they arise. That lasts until 9 o’clock, then I’ve got to find a hotel near to a village with a high innuendo potential in its name- Thrussington.
What an exciting life I lead.
Not a lot to say tonight. I mean to get off line and do some work on Bulletproof Poets. Here’s today’s pic an a bit more of The Eliza Effect. Be warned, the links go exactly where they say.
Paul had sat down and swiped his mouse across its mat three times before he realised the problem. “Some bugger’s stolen me computer.”
“Who would want to steal your PC? Wandering bands of Pentium thieving Gypsys? Tech Support of course.”
“What the fuck would Tech Support want with a computer?”
“But it does give you a chance to go see Sarah.”
“I’m out of here.”
“What did you mean, ‘Maybe she wasn’t a lesbian before the Christmas party.�'”
Sarah had been segregated from the rest of Tech Support, because she worked for Sales and they were different. It had worked out quite well, because the partition gave her more room. There were four desktop cases and two monitors on one table and a naked case on the other. Sarah was hooking yet another case up to a monitor. “Oh, hi.”
“Hello. Did you, er�.. Do you have my PC?”
“That one there�” She indicated the topless box. “You requested a memory upgrade and CD drive.”
“That was three months ago.”
“There was a pile of work orders on the desk. I guess no-one had bothered to deal with them.” Sarah indicated her out pile, weighted with a coffee cup.
“Oh, I’m not complaining, I’m more sort of surprised. It took me five months to get a bin I could call my own.”
“Oh, well. George told to do them all ASAP. There’s another for a printer upgrade. It’s something to do with a project your working on.”
“A project we’ve almost finished. Oh well.” He spotted the PC she had been plugging in. “That’s not a company build.”
“George has got me working on his home PC.”
“He had one of that lot,” Paul thumbed in the direction of the rest of Tech Support, “doing that as well. Installed a hard drive.”
“They didn’t do too good a job. Formatted it wrong, and now I have to run off a backup to CD so I can reformat. Except�..”
“Except?” Paul leaned in close so he could look at the screen over Sarah’s shoulder.
She had opened Windows Explorer, and selected the properties of the hard drive. The piechart was all pink. Sarah tapped it. “George has only gone and filled the bloody thing right up hasn’t he. I need to find something to delete so I can make room for the drivers.”
“Try the temporary Internet files. That folder can get quite big.”
“Good idea. There. Hey, it lists all the places he’s been. Let’s see. Amazon. Amazon, Amazon, Amazon, Amazon.”
“What dull surfing.”
“Amazon, Amazon, Amazon�” Ann Summers?”
“I didn’t even know he was married.”
“Let’s see where else he’s been.”
“Nastyschoolgirl dot com?” Mike asked. “Nasty. Schoolgirl. Dot. Com?”
“Indeed. But that was just one visit. He’d been to must have been every single page of the Ann Summers site. I’ll never be able to look at him again with out seeing the words ‘Realistic jelly feel’. And to top it all off, then we got to the photo personals.”
“You didn’t see�.?”
“Don’t know. They blank out the faces.”
“That does it. I’m wiping my Internet cache. Where is the King of the swingers anyway?”
“‘Taking a meeting’ with someone from head office.”
“Oh God, that means he’s claiming the system was all his idea.”
Today’s picture of the day.
Fox hunting is up for debate and a free vote again, and I’m more against a ban than ever. I’ve been considering this every time it comes up, and the main problem with the whole debate is that both sides are wrong.
The calls to ban hunting come from the urbs and suburbs and is raised by people who haven’t grasped one important fact. The foxes will still be killed, even if they are no longer hunted with dogs. The animal is a predator and scavenger, albeit a cute ginger one, and it will still be a threat to livestock. They’ll be shot, trapped or poisoned. None of these options is particularly nice, except when compared to being torn to shreds by hounds, and the trapping and poisoning will affect other animals as well.
And on the other side we have the Countryside Alliance, who keep making their claims about the number of people mobilised to support fox hunting on their march in London. Except that people were there for a number of rural matters, all of them far more important than the rights of the unspeakable to pursue the uneatable. And as for all those claims that the sport is traditional. Well, I’m sure people have been hunting for centuries but I’d lay evens odds on it being the Victorians who created the ‘traditional’ aspects, all the halloos and red (or pinque apparently) outfits.
Each side has half a dozen other arguments to trash, and given time I happily would. But the important thing here is that this fuss over a minor, if sadistic, hobby is the only real discussion of country matters. If either side actually cares about the future of the countryside they should give up this fight and start thinking about rural transport, the shrinking rural population, or the factory farming which caused BSE and Foot and Mouth. But then, solutions would require unglamorous stuff like work, planning and investment.
Picture of the day.
It’s not raining, so now I have to make another excuse for not going on a training ride. For now, I’m settling for the hangover. Back on the drink yesterday. I can no longer abstain until I leave because I just volunteered for another three or so months. It’s odd, isn’t it, the day after I agree to this extension I’m thanked and congratulated by a little surprise in my pay packet. Hmmmm.
I had a RomCom movie plot idea last night on the bus back from town, based upon a conversation I had a few weeks ago when I was asked if I’d like to be a bridesmaid(?!?!?!) Starting from that premise, of a bloke being asked to be a bridesmaid by one of his female friends, you can extrapolate lots of gender and sexuality related jokes and mix ups. Of course, he gets to go to the Hen night, and there he meets a woman. She isn’t interested at first because obviously he must be gay (and/ or she’s in a relationship with a bastard). The wedding approaches, they see more and more of each other (she can’t really be another bridesmaid, or they’d have met before, but she could be the bride’s cousin or something). He convinces her he’s not gay by the tried and tested movie method of sleeping with her. The wedding comes around- comedy ensues. The happy couple ride off into wedded bliss and our guy gets the girl.
I think Madonna for the bride, Gwyneth for the love interest [so she can try out her English accent and get nekkid again =)], not Hugh Grant for the bloke- maybe John Hannah. Form an orderly queue and start making offers for the script.
Blogger was having issues on Thursday, and I was out last night, so I’ve missed some updates. Here’s the Last Page of Bulletproof Poets, Pic of the day for March 1st and today’s pic.
Every five or six weeks, my employment agency forgets to pay me. They did it again yesterday. They remembered to pay me my holiday pay for last Friday, but neglected to add the cash for the days I worked in the same week. It’s sort of like the payroll equivalent of being unable to pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.