A New Post

I started this page a few years ago to vent frustration at my incompetent and often u-turning bosses, and also because I wanted to write something other than "Dear Caroline, 1. Please forward to me GL for January, 2. Alfred has not received his overtime for Dec. 3, Will you be at the meeting on..."

I got A's for my English GCSE's and had some of my work copied and placed in the school library, so I was always quite proud of my writing skills. A writing assignemt used to look like a stack of boxes I had to fill, with the begining, the midle and the end. Text has form and structure. Now, I don't know where to begin, the end is nowhere in sight and the middle is just a muddle. I find it hard to string a few words together. Maybe I've lost the art, or maybe I've got nothing to say. There's certainly nothing inspirational enough going on in my life right now that could result in the vitriolic posts I was spewing out a while ago. Work, has calmed down (I'm in charge now), home life is hectic and leave me drained, I'm usually half asleep at work. The various pieces of my life are held together by a collection of lists, that if put end to end would circumnavigate the earth twice.

1. Wash face
   
2. Phone sick friend
   
3. shine shoes
   
4. Change baby nappy
   
5. Blog
   
6. Read list at work
   
7. Do work
   

I think it's just old age and impending doom.

Meeting

Meetings are the diabolical ceremonies that sustain and propagate the boredom cult. Like any other religious service, they have their own strange incantational language (jargon and mission statements); sacred texts (minutes and agenda); symbolic garments (the business suit and tie); sacraments (croissants and coffee - the flesh and blood of holy tedium); and participants often feel themselves lapse into a state of trance-like detachment. The Sabbath has moved from Sunday, undergone fivefold multiplication and filled the week with days where we must arrive in our best clothes and be on our best behaviour. More people attend business meetings than attend church and so the cult of boredom has become the de facto religion of the working world. As befits the occasion, the chapels of boredom are sparsely decorated rooms with functional furniture, neutral lighting and often an altar crowned with a computer (the earthly manifestation of the spirit of ennui).

T. J. Snaith, i-resign.com

I went to a budget meeting the other day. Sat in car at 7 am, got to meeting 10am (an hour late), sat in meeting until 4pm, started another meeting at 4:30pm, (by this time I was ready to fight my way tooth and nail to the door), sat in car at 7pm, got home at 10pm. The only thing I learned is that I don't have the skills required for this task, i.e. sitting on my butt in a very small and uncomfortable chair for hours on end and only getting up to go to the dining hall and eat. I had a three hour drive to get there and I was feeling quite sick by the time I got back.

I'm not going again. They want to meet again on the ninth of March. Beware the ninth of March!!!! I'm not going. They can't make me. I'm going to pretend my baby is sick, but no that's too womanly. Pretend I'm sick, but they'll know I'm lying, half the people there will have seen me the day before. I've got just under a month to concoct a scheme, but I know for sure I'm definately NOT GOING.

This is not a movie review

It came out ages ago but I only got to watch it yesterday. The last hour or so of Kill Bill Vol 2. And it was crap. The only reason to watch it is Uma Thurman, the poor woman carries the entire pile of rubbish by herself. The whole thing looks and sounds like it was made by an eight year old. The boring dialogue sounds a lot like the stories my nephew writes in his creative writing classes. And the climax of the movie, where The Bride actually kills Bill is the biggest let down since the millenium celebrations.

She sits in her chair and pokes his chest with her fingers a few times thereby administering a leathal move called 'death claw something something'. He then does up his jacket buttons, has a bit of a chin wag with his murderess, strolls off into his lawn and finally drops dead.

Oh and just before she kills him she tells us all a story about maternal instincts and how impending motherhood changes ones priorities. It's too bizarre for me to even describe.

All in all rubbish.

Is it Friday already?

I am currently presiding over the administrative/governance mess left over from the past few years which, while quietly rotting away in the background has started stinking on my watch.

HQ has hired company1 to do our accounts and company2 to audit us. I have been asked to provide the following reports asap (as in yesterday): trial balances from the last two years, list of everything bought since 1996 with dates and prices, signed documents that the Bigboss took home with him when he retired (ijiit).

So what to do when deadlines are looming, ulcers are forming and stress is making my hair all dry and frizzy?

Surf the net and waste time of course!

Tomkat

Katie Holmes is being used to reincarnate L Ron Hubbard. I have this on very good authority from Riffs. According to reviewer Maryhope:

Have you seen Rosemary's Baby? (if not don't read on. . . I'm going to give things away). . . A young man brainwashed (ok fine, bribed) and his wife brainwashed (ok, unaware), her body chosen as a vessel for the birth of a religiously inspired super human (ok ok the devil). . . but you see where I am going!? Silent birth!? the reincarnation of Hubbard?! What!? We must unite to save Katie!


This is completely true and I believe it. There can be no other explanation for such a bizarre union.