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Monday Blues

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Work is full of weird and wonderful things. The email I received this morning from my boss (the-IT-man) which was entitled ‘My Movements for this week’ for instance. I panicked that there might be pictures.

Then there’s Mr Word. He’s in our Wolverhampton office, and he sent me some legal documents in Word format so that I could change the text colour from red to black. Must send him some pennies so that he can buy ‘Word Processing for Dummies.’

Then there’s the always lovely Snoopy Woman in our office, who’s a little dizzy. She came in to see me in a panic because there was ‘a box appearing in the corner of my screen and I think it wants me to shut down and I’ve only just restarted it.’ When I checked, this was the Automatic Updates system telling her that it had now restarted and was up to date.

Then there’s the coffee situation. Goddamn the coffee situation (slight pause while I get a coffee!) I’m starting to run IT training sessions soon in our office, but I’m starting to consider interspersing them with coffee making training. I take coffee white, no sugar. I like it strong. Real coffee should not be made the McBoring way. His coffee looks like weak gravy. Even with milk, I can see the bottom of the mug through a full cup of his coffee and that’s damn well not right. Then there Wine Man (who’s just moved into our room). Unlike the ever-dull McBoring, he’s actually a nice guy. BUT HIS COFFEE ALSO LOOKS LIKE GRAVY! Only Mr Murderpint (the final addition to our room) makes a reasonable brew, but even he balks at making it strong enough. I swear I’m going to be asleep by 10am every day unless I make my own. As such I’ve started carefully timing my coffee routine so that I already have one when they all get in in the morning and am therefore out-of-sync all day and have to make my own. My coffee puts hairs on the palms of your hand! In the old days, when this room contained the amusing accounts department and myself, we used to have coffee wars. Chicken Boy, the Hobbit, the Shiny One and I would try and outdo each other on a daily basis. This was knocked on the head after I made Chicken Boy a coffee with fourteen spoons of coffee and twenty sugars. You could have walked on it. It does have to be said that I sleep better since the days of coffee war, when I remember during one week actually only sleeping three days out of the five at all, and then not very much.

I’m sure that there are a million humorous stories from the last week of keeping my dad company while he convalesces. Ah yes.

My dad. He’s much better now and the easiest way to tell has to be the manipulation. While he still needs help here and there, he’s started using his slightly incapacitated condition for his future benefit. He’s been trying to persuade my mother to let him have a motorbike now for years. She’s somewhat reluctant due to his track record (when only about eighteen he hit a parked car and travelled a hundred yards down the road on his face, breaking most of his bones in the process.) The subject comes up regularly, interspersed with groans of discomfort, while he reads Motorcycle News and watches my mother’s reactions out of the corner of his eye. Then there’s the matter of hospital meals. I’d always been led to believe that hospital food was awful (never having been in one long enough to need to eat), but apparently these days they’re really good. Tasty, nutritionally balanced and above all, regular as clockwork. Now my dad’s home where we’ve always eaten when we felt like it, but after two weeks of hospital meals, he gets hungry when he gets up, at 11, at noon, at 5 and late at night. The routine is amazing and, having now shared the house with him again for several days, I’m stuffed to the gills. I can’t cope with eating so regularly and at such ordered times. I came home on Sunday and looked like an airship with legs.

As an interesting aside, the Geordie in the village on Sunday morning was prowling around the fields at the back of his house with a digital camera trying to surreptitiously take photos of sheep without looking like a madman to passers by. I enquired as to the reason and it turns out that he’d been talking over the net with some friend in west coast America and they were having trouble sleeping. Thus Geordie was trying to supply him with sheep to count and, for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to use photoshop to turn them into Tartan Sheep. Weird. Some times it’s like being in the Village of the Damned.

More later. Work to do now.

Moosehunter

(wishing I was listening to the new In Flames album, which is devastating!)

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Written by SJAT

December 20, 2009 at 12:48 pm

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