The lifts adjacent to our hamster pods are ironically termed the Fun Boy Three“. This is an oblique reference to their inability to travel vertically without shuddering to a lengthy halt, or maliciously crushing a limb in their claw like doors. The closest one has a ground state of broken; occasionally it judders into life to cheekily abandon passengers between floors, before being immobilised by a weary collection of excuses. Can’t get the parts mate” or too many fat people on the upper floors have knackered it“.

This leaves just the two operating although today one was in obvious mechanical distress. There was a disturbing combination of bumping and grinding likely to trigger a sequence of catastrophic events, ending in a plummet to, and probably through, the ground floor. For anyone familiar with the lift plunging, cable slashing scene in the original Omen, the parallel was obvious. Entering that lift could only end in a fatal anthology of blood and entrails. Still, being more than a little keen for a quick shower, a large coffee and an entraily bucket of fried food, it seemed worth the risk.

The doors made three abortive attempts to close before slamming shut in an ear bleeding crash. Anyone venturing an unguarded arm, in an attempt at holding the lift, would have been reunited with their withered stump on the ground floor. They would have had plenty of time to bleed down the stairs though as the lift attempted a bold sideways move, clearly aggravated at being rigidly secured in it’s perpendicular prison,. It put me in mind of the elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory except with less glass and more potential for imminent death.

More victims ill advisedly added themselves to this boxy death toll, and the lift responded with a mechanical death rattle as the doors finally wheezed open on the ground floor. Pondering the possibility of spending my entire morning waiting for a non lethal encounter with a rising lift, I jumped both physically and metaphorically out of the box and made slow but safe progress up the fire-stairs.

Shaky legs and rasping lungs apart, this proved to be a shrewd decision, as the entire Fun Boy Three had joined their striking brothers in the shower and ambushed about half the firm between floors three and four. There’s a book running on whether the coffee machine or lifts will be repaired first, but, based on historical precedent, I sincerely hope those trapped are provisioned with sandwiches for at least a couple of days.

In the same way that people begin to resemble their pets, these lifts remind me of some of our less auspicious working practices. I’ll not enumerate these in all their glory, but take slow, difficult, inconsistent, frustrating and bonkers as examples and I think you’ll get the idea.

It’s hard to credit that an apparently sane man can get properly annoyed at both showers AND lifts in the same week. Unless you’ve met me, in which case you’ll be nodding sanguinely, muttering once a nutter, always a nutter“.

In a doomed attempt to clear the half written backlog, I’m switching strategies in favour of shorter de-fluffed articles starting with this one. So in terms of a punchy opening, that’s a close approximation to events in the changing room this morning.

We’re down to one shower now; no-one knows why and since the facilities helpdesk is peopled by those whose objectives include saving money” and being apathetically unhelpful” but do not include fixing the problem“, it’s unlikely to be sorted any time soon. Adapting to this watery uni-jet, we’re all selecting the quickwash option to ensure a decent throughput.

Except for the bloke in front of me. You could tell he worked for tax; all his clothes were laid out as if he were waiting for his funeral, which wasn’t far away unless he hopped it sharpish out of the shower. But no, entirely incognisant as he was to the increasing backpressure of sweaty and late individuals, each body part was three times meticulously and laboriously washed.

Honestly, anymore selfish and he’d have ripped the showerhead off the wall and taken it with him. I was defiant, ignoring the normal protocol of staring at the ceiling or partaking in a spot of urban archaeology, nasally dating abandoned socks. Instead I fixed him with my best Paddington Bear Stare and willed his shower gel to morph into drain cleaner. But, of course this was wasted, him being a member of the dull numerical class, his myopia was confirmed by a pair of dustbin lid sized specs perfectly aligned on his towel. He was clearly washing by slow touch and memory.

Finally, probably sensing a build up of barely restrained violence, he vacated the shower area wrapping himself in a square root of towel. I was showered, dried, dressed and outta there before he’d even clothed himself in appropriate trouserage. I’m sure he was ticking each task off in a book pants on, check, plum line from nose aligned with Y-Front, check, talcum powder nostrils, check, etc“.

God Alive, it was bad enough sharing a ten minute fetid space with this denizen of the accounting hoard; so I couldn’t help thinking as he put on his wedding ring (polish three times, twirl, examine in light, make constipated face, polish once more, slip onto finger, twirl, check positioning, complete double entry book keeping“) what it would be like to be his wife. Not in a kind of kinky, cross-dressing homo erotic fantasy (oh that’s me screwed with the google-bot indexer now) rather in a has his wife been selected for canonisation kind of way“. And if not, why not?

It was only the thought of his poor family that wrenched away the happy slappy fist of doom that was bunching subconsciously. If I’m caught behind him again though, I’m going to hide his glasses, mess up his clothes and eat his wedding ring. Just to check if this really does make people like that explode.

Trust me, he’s earned it.

I’m unsure if any of you plumbed the same levels of despair as I, when brutally confronted with the infamous ˜non delivery of the chocolate‘. If you did, then please cancel the therapy session, this one had a happy ending.

Awaiting me at the office, occupying pride of place on my desk, was a chocolate of gargantuan proportions hand delivered by a guilty Sarah of my working parish. It’s worth stating for the record that Sarah is really terribly nice whilst most of the dysfunctional family who work here faced with a similar dilemma, would have nonchalantly deposited a steaming donkey turd on my chair. Or set fire to my desk depending on their proximity to matches.

Sorry, were you starting your breakfast? I’ll try and devise some kind of warning sign in the future.

I’d like to say that this “ and I don’t think this is any way an exaggeration “ historic chocolate has been hermetically sealed in a glass display box with a small hand written note of providence added to create the impression of a shrine. Visitors could marvel at both the size of the chocolate and the heart warming story behind it.

I’d like to say that. But it’s just not the case; in a moment of ˜h’mm feeling a bit peckish’ I ate it. Lovely it was too, with a hard chocolately coating briefly protecting a slightly softer but still satisfyingly calorific chocolate inner core. Not a praline in sight.

This should not be thought to, in any way, diminish the act of selflessness on Sarah’s part. I like to think I’ve internalised the issue.

Carol has often speculated on my inability to write anything that offers more than a cursory nod to the rest of my life. Bikes this and commuting that, very nice but not really touching on the joys and otherwise of parenting and real life; you know normal kind of everyone-else-does-it stuff. I did offer up the grouting article but she rightly objects since that’s nothing more than a thin veneer of nonsense barely covering yet another riding entry.

So I’ve written one, but from the stormy face I left back at the school, I don’t think she’s going to like it.

Tonight was the School Bingo Night. It was, predictably, fucking awful. Firstly, the worse thing to give kids, when they’re in that dangerous transitional state between hyperactivity and total shutdown, is a ton of sugary sweets. Even before the first number was called, the noise level effortlessly crested the pain barrier and kept on going.

The good news was that there was a bar, the less than good news was my mood was so foul, I dared not risk playing the alcohol may be a depressant card�?. This had the potential to get violently embarrassing ending in a manic laying about myself with a copy of the register. So instead I shouted at my kids, supported my wife not at all and fired up the inner grumpy.

But honestly Bingo – fuck it’s dull. Old people wait for God playing Bingo along with Whist Drives and Football Pools. At least card games provide an opportunity to cheat, and the pools require some modicum of skill. Whereas bingo is about as interesting a game of chance as shouting out random words from the newspaper and trying to construct a sentence. No actually, that’s more fun, in the spirit of comparative experimentation, I’ve just tried it and come up with Blair, crisps, Iraq and leafy mildew. Blair’s leafy mildew crisps Iraq” – I may be on to something here.

The poor bugger doing the calling was drowned out by a background hum of a hundred do-gooders asking to repeat the last number, ably supported by a cacophony of children being noisily sick. Still on balance it serves him right. because he was trying to be a character steeped in all the Bingo lore that 10 Internet minutes of novelty calling can provide . Pick up sticks, number six�? he’d project out to his allegedly adoring crowd. Well all except one who was spluttering Dog Ball Licks, number six. A few other potential crowd pleasers were tragically missed including:

69 “ do yourself a line
22 “ who put the poo in the loo?
74 “ declare martial law.

Continue reading “Bingo Night!” →

Literally. Powered by pasties and post work beers, I launched a one man assault on the local wildlife, rooted rigid as it was in the transfixing beam of my monster bike light. But even wearing the Beer Jacket over shorts and a t-shirt, it’s obvious that something’s gone astray with the weather.

It really shouldn’t be this warm in Mid October. The lawn is both exceptionally lush and about four feet high. I can’t mow it because it’s retaining sufficient moisture to power a small waterwheel. Instead I shall invest in a goat which may offer some other advantages come the long, cold winter nights.

Rather than complete any of the half written (yes it’s true, there are articles in a worst grammatical state than those already posted) entries today, I’d better show some vocational backbone and complete a motivatingly crushing lists of tasks which I naively accepted as mine.

The reason? It’s my appraisal tomorrow and my boss reads this blog, so I’m hoping that a sudden outpouring of completed actions can fool him into thinking this is my normal output.

Ah, I’ve just seen the flaw in that plan. Never mind, amuse yourself if you will with the word of the day; that word is “Whelk” there’s a good reason but I’ll not bore you with it. Any whelk related comments, or better still, Whelk dialogue shall go far in cheering up an otherwise miserable day.

Let me start you off:

Crab walks past a Whelk
“Which way to the sea” Crab asks
“That Way–>” says Whelk
“Thanks” says crab
“You’re Whelkome” responds Whelk.

100{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of truth. Ask any Whelk-lover.

Oh and Appraisals; any useful or constructive ideas on how to approach one? Through the office door is a sound start but not having been graded/appraised/humiliated for about 10 years, I’m not sure what to expect.

Will there be cakes do you think?

Is it true that wearing a chicken suit enhances the whole experience? This is the kind of stuff I think I should know.