Hard day at the office

There was a gentle, metalic clanking noise outside my office window the other day. It was the sort of noise one associates with pipes or beer kegs being rattled. A man's face rose slowly into view on the other side of the glass, a large piece of scaffolding in his hands. He was on top of a slightly wobbling tower of tubes and struts. He briefly looked up at the jungle ecosystem of my bosses' gutters then began to disassemble the platform he was standing on. In a quarter hour, he was back, this time suitably steadied and stabilised. His partner, below, passed up readymade pieces of the giant Mecanno kit, tied on various ropes and pulleys, crawled carefully up the outside and joined him at the top.

"They've finally come to clean the gutters," I said to the office at large. Some curious necks were craned towards the windows. In a few minutes large sods of peaty, weed-choked soil were pulled out and dropped into the courtyard below. The courtyard is surrounded on four sides by a three storey building. The scaffold was tugged and pushed along on large castors over the slabbed floor until the entire square had been properly cleaned. Then they took the whole apparatus down again and moved it bit by bit through the ground-floor corridors to the next courtyard on the other side of our communal office, the courtyard above which last year's seagull had been hatched.

This year's hatchling is almost fully grown though not as adventurous as the first one we saw. It sits dutifully on the ridge tile over a nook created by the louvre-windows waiting for its parents to return with lunch. I suppose not much happens in an average day sitting up on a roof. Nothing that includes visitors from below, anyway.

The man on the scaffold inched over to the gutter below the seagull's ledge. A long, white feathered neck rose up over the ridge tile above.

"Shree! Shree! Shree! Who the fuck are you?" it shrieked.

The man lowered himself a little to the platform and consulted with his partner on the ground. He rose up above the rim again, one eye on the bird which had both eyes on him.

"Shree! Shree! Shree! Get away from that, you bollix!"

A shadow passed over. There was a chorus of "Shree!" noises, as one of the parent birds landed beside the ledge nest.

The man gripped the head of a dandelion and pulled a sod of muck out of the gutter, dropping it into a bucket.

"Shree-Shree! Shree-Shree! Shree-Shree!" the two birds screamed at him. The chick nestled down a little behind the frame of the louvre window, perhaps to hide. The parent marched up and down the ridge tiles, neck thrust out aggressively. Everytime the man bent down to lower the bucket, the cries ceased. When his head was thrust back up into sight, threats and screams rained down on him from above.

At last the scaffold had trundled out of the danger zone and was being disassembled for another trip through the offices to the next courtyard. The birds gave one final triumphant "Shree-Shree-Shree!" then closed their eyes and rested in the afternoon sun.

Who'll crack first?

The door slams and the office is left silent but for an occasional customer deluded into thinking someone will answer the phone after hours. When even that dies down there is only the muted sound of scattered sighs.

"Sigh."
"Sigh."
"Sigh."

The dreaded overtime has begun.

We're on our annual quest to count receipts and balance books and as usual we're about two months late in starting, so everybody's under pressure.

"Put the kettle on."

Tea is made and the silence is broken by the rustling of papers as sandwiches and little cakes are produced and offered around.

"Sigh."

I am checking amounts in the central accounting program against amounts in the database I maintain. The first look shows a difference of about €300 in €80,000, so I am not unhappy. The second look shows a difference of about €9,000 in €80,000. I shall have to start ticking off amounts.

"Sigh."

At the end of the office, a muttered mantra begins as someone starts their own checking process:
"One, three, six, one, point three, three?"
"Yep."
"On, two, eight, six, point one, three?"
"Yep."

After a while, I feel like shouting back: "Amen!", but I keep my nose out.

Figures are running back and forth across the page. I sip at tea and eat a Club Milk bar. The hours wear on. The numbers become a forest of little arrows and check marks. Progress, though infinitely slow, is being made.

Somewhere a imaginary clock begins to tick...

Breaking the Circle

If all those over-paid Astologers are to be believed, you're supposed to have an improvement in luck as your birthday gets nearer. Mine is turning turtle at the moment and it's my birthday in two days' time.

I was in the canteen last week and queuing with a tray in hand. There are two checkouts parallel to each other. If one side of the queue gets busy, or one of the staff has to go get more change, or replenish mugs, or answer a call (of nature or otherwise), the lady on the other side will double-up temporarily. Likewise, if food has to be weighed before purchase. Our canteen caterers sell stuff like salads or breakfast cereals by weight.

So two girls in the queue in front of me were yapping happily away and taking their time putting change into purses and such. Christine, on the checkout nearest me sat impassively waiting for the next customer, me.

Across from her, the girl on the other checkout craned her neck to see what I'd chosen, punched it into the register, twisted the readout my way so I could see that €5 was the price, took my tenner and gave me back a €5 note in change.

Christine, meanwhile, punched a couple of buttons. I supposed she was taking for the meal of the person behind me. I picked up the tray and went and sat down.

"They're saying you didn't pay, Willie," said a colleague, passing by, grinning.

"I paid the other girl!" I said to the universe at large. I got up and went to tell Christine of the mistake. On the way, I bumped into the assistant canteen manager.

"Are you stealing food?" she asked. I presume she was trying to be funny. I ignored her, but I could feel the niggle starting.

I plucked Christine's elbow.

"I paid the other girl," I said, pointing.

A few minutes later, Christine appeared beside me, red-faced. She must have checked with the other girl.

"I'm very sorry," she said. "I didn't see you paying. I really must apologise."

"If I'd been stealing food," I said, trying unsuccessfully to be non-chalant and humourous "You wouldn't have seen me do it!"

We both chuckled a little self-consciously.

Christine apologised again. I said:

"I hope that manager one knows I paid." I pointed over my shoulder at her.

"Oh, don't mind her," said Christine, and scuttled off back to her register.

I did mind. The more I thought about it.... ("Are you stealing food? Ha Ha Ha!")... the more annoyed I felt. Most of the dinner went uneaten.

At quitting time, I walked over towards my bus stop. Here was the canteen assistant manager coming the other way on foot.

"Hello!" I said. I stopped.

I said: "Tell us. Are we all square about that thing earlier?"

She smiled and laughed and went on walking. I stood looking after her, now fuming! Why the fuck wouldn't she put my mind at ease and just say everything was fine? I went home in very bad humour.

There's now a definite atmosphere in our canteen up at the checkouts when I queue there. No-one asks me any more how my day is going, or how my colleagues are that aren't with me today, or if I have any holidays planned. They just take the money in silence. Not quite a stony silence, but silence nonetheless.

If I could afford it, I'd take my business elsewhere. But the job subsidises the food prices in the canteen, making up for how little they pay us otherwise. I'm stuck.

This morning, kick in the pants Number Two.

I got on my usual bus and travelled up to The Square on my way to work. I usually get off the bus a bit before The Square, but this morning I wanted to get some cash from the ATM to see me through the week. The bus pulled in and the driver switched off the engine. I thanked him and stepped off. There was a smallish man of about 50 in front of me, moving along the footpath. He stopped and turned towards me.

"Excuse me," he said.

I thought maybe he was going to ask for directions. I stopped and said:

"Yes, sir?"

He said: "I was sitting at the back of the bus." He pointed. "You got on and looked at me. I don't like people looking at me..."

I blinked.

"What?"

"I was on the bus. You looked at me..."

"I did not! This is the first time I've seen you today...!" I laughed.

He stood looking at me. I realised he was serious and now that I looked at him he did seem a little familiar. But I had clambered onto the bus this morning without a thought for anything other than my usual twin goals of not falling over as the bus pulled away from the bus stop and finding a seat upstairs.

"Where you sitting behind me or what...? I asked, puzzled. I was trying to get my head around what he was saying. It wasn't sinking in at all.

"I don't like people looking at me."

I thought: "Little wonder, you ugly little fucker."

I said: "I absolutely swear, I did not look at you in any way whatsoever!"

He walked off, mumbling.

Jesus Christ! I went into The Square, mindful that he was walking in front of me by a few yards. All I need now, I figured, is for him to tell a security man I'm following him or something. That would really put the tin hat on the whole business!

Around five o'clock I remembered how he looked familiar. The little bollix lives in Firhouse and.... wait for it.... is often at the bus stop I use every single morning! On his way to see a psychiatrist, I have no doubt, but fuck it! He'll probably be standing at the bus stop tomorrow morning.

"I'm getting a car," I said to myself on the five o'clock bus. I had found myself looking around at the other passengers suspiciously. Who was going to pop out of a bag or a box and twist my noodle this time? Would the other little bollix turn up again? What would I do if he said something?

At home, the third piece of what I hope is the end of this circle of the most bizarre luck there's been around here in ages happened. Herself came home without her much-loved, mobile phone. Surely that broke the charm?

I was so sympathetic on hearing the phone had been left in work. Among unknown cleaners. With keys to the office.

"Oh, that's terrible," I purred. "There, there. I'm sure it will be just sitting there when you go into work in the morning."

So tomorrow, the day before my birthday, I'll have an angry Firhouse gnome gunning for me on the bus to work. My tea will be served by people afraid to smile or joke in any manner. And I shall probably not receive any texts to brighten my day.

Roll on next year.

Happy Birthday to me.... Happy Birthday to me....

It's a hard life

Terrible start to the day. My bus was stuck behind another bus and on the back of this other bus was a twenty-foot high Eva Longoria. I had to sit there wondering if it was a corset or not. I know the nose was not an original. And there was at least a whole can of hairspray involved in the picture taking.

The advert -- for a magazine -- read:

"Why Eva will never be desperate."

Well, your face is on the back of a bus, missus...

Work is a raddled arse at the moment. I shall not dwell on it too much.

Towards quitting time, Herself rang me to say there was a gas leak at home. I suggested she phone the gas company. This was 16:10 or thereabouts.

"Are you in Knocklyon?" she was asked.

"No."

"Anywhere near Glenvara?"

"Well... Maybe."

"Oh that's the source of the smell then. We had a gas main pulled up earlier. You can switch your boiler back on."

"Are you sending anyone out?"

"Oh yes."

It's 22:11 and we've not blown up and we've not had anyone with something with a sniffer on its end turn up. Boiler is back on anyway. No smell of gas anywhere. Must have been the gas main in Glenvara, eh?

Clever people, those Bord Gáis customer care folks.

Back to work...

...and my back is playing silly buggers. My workmates diagnose Sciatica. As someone is always suffering some ailment, I don't doubt their collective opinion and it's saved me €60 at the doctor's anyhow. I spent last evening with a heat pack strapped to my arse and walked everywhere like Elvis in his 68 comeback special, but without the leather gear. The pain is gradually easing, thank you for asking.

Good things: I forgot that my Christmas pressie from my chums was stashed under my desk and when I found it again today and looked closely, it turned out to be a box full of beer.

As I said, the pain is now gradually easing.

I shall not hazard the chilli flavoured peanuts that accompanied the beer in case the lack of bowel control that I read on the Internet can be associated with severe Sciatica should kick in.

There is only so much speed I can muster with one good leg and the other trailing a half-step behind and I should not like to shite circles around myself on the way to the loo.

Herself is making small prayers in the hallway, taking down Christmas decorations. The place is starting to look bare.

If it is fine tomorrow, I may attempt to paint the doorsteps, which need a blackening. Thus far, we have not yet found suitable tiles for the floor of the new porch. I suggested a temporary linoleum and two days of ice and snow resulted.

Long Hard Day doin' nothing

My two eyes feel like someone is in the back of my head squeezing them by hand to produce something vinegary.

Herself and I sailed off into the lofty heights of a private hospital today to pick up some test results (and almost sailed off into some even higher heights when I suddenly directed her into a change of course in front of an oncoming van... Apologies to the driver who needed a change of underwear before ever having set foot in work!) and as the appointment was for the ungodly hour of 8.00am, we have been out of bed for too many hours already today.

The test results were fine, and weren't for me. The pain behind my eyes is just from the tension of (ironically) a day of not being at work.

Gas company arrived to put in the big yellow fuse. Their jackhammers and JCB with rockbreaker and the ever-popular mole going Thump! Thump! Thump! for hours has set my teeth on edge.

So I'm grumpy.

But you knew that already.

I mean I am noticeably more grumpy than usual.

But I have just found a €5 voucher for Woodies, so that is good. And I managed to load the dishwasher (the labour of it all...!) and get it started. And brought in washing. And mixed a little sand and cement and filled some holes in the side of the house. So maybe all is not as bad as it seems.

Plumbers promise to connect the heating system to the big yellow fuse next week.

Doubtless, I shall improve my humour as the ambient room temperature rises.

At least I have my health

Following on from cheesy dreams and toothache, I found myself on Monday suffering with stomach ache. And when a stomach the size of mine aches, that's a BIG ache!

There's a gastro- bug going around at the moment and I seem to have got a version. It seemed in my case to only exhibit cramps rather than resolving into anything messier. All the same, I was in bed shivering like a jelly by 9.30 and though I went to work yesterday feeling only a little sore, I decided to take today off to chase off the very last of the bug.

Update on the seagulls: Three of us were looking out the window at the puzzling seagulls on Monday when a small brown blob of fluff on webbed feet scuttled across the roof tiles! The pair evidently have at least one chick, possibly two. Yesterday the parents spent quite a long time away but came back in the late afternoon. I suppose they were out shopping.

None can compare with the cliffs of.... Tallaght?

Tallaght Town Centre and two large gulls appear to have made a home recently on top of one of the pitched rooftops. I can see one of them from my office window, on the north face of the clock tower of County Hall, one sitting in the niche of a louvred ventilator. When its mate appears, the two greet each other with many "Shree! Shree! Shree!" calls that remind one of being at the seaside.

Someone speculates that perhaps the sitter is one of this year's young, still being fed by a dutiful parent.

I don't know enough about them to judge, but it looks to me like they're considering nesting on the rooftop. It is sheltered from the prevailing wind. It overlooks a courtyard that isn't accessible to the public. There are several fast-food restaurants in the area from which an enterprising gull might, conceivably, glean enough discarded food to raise a chick.

The nesting theory gained a little ground yesterday when the sitting gull maintained its position even during the worst of a number of thunderstorms that swept the area.

We are quite a way from the sea, though, and I wonder if nesting is a viable option. I shall bring my binoculars tomorrow. If nothing else, it should worry my colleagues in the opposite side of the building as I peer out the window and focus in one something unseen over their heads.

[Pic by User:Dschwen at Wikipedia Commons. Republished under terms of GNU Free Documentation Licence]

All I wanted were some Post-Its

It used to be so easy. If you wanted a box of jumbo wavy paperclips, some envelopes and a rubber knob for the end of your little finger, you'd write out a page in the wee stationery order book, get it signed by a reasonably-responsible person, then wander downstairs to the stores.

The stores were at the end of a long tunnel lined with empty water cooler bottles like a leftover ammunition dump of the Great War. Footfalls echoed eerily ahead of you. Water dripped down inside pipework in the walls and ceiling. An occasional groan or sob broke the creepy silence in side doors at the rear of the kitchen. Just out of the corner of one's eye, something white and slime-covered slithered quickly into a bucket of water, then was still.

Inside a little wooden hatch at the foot of a stairway sat Gerry the Storeman, whose desk was hidden behind a shabby blue partition. On the other side he engaged in code breaking of the Russian defence forces radio traffic and complicated cyphers hidden in the muisic of Radio Moscow for an un-named government. The receiver would click off and his head appear over the partition when you knocked or coughed. A sheaf of top secrets would be shuffled off into a drawer. A newspaper would be deftly draped over a pistol on the desktop. He smiled, keeping one hand near the gun.

"Morning, Willie. What can I get you?"

"The swans of April are shedding their winter plumage early this year," I would say.

Relaxing and moving towards the hatch, his hands held carefully by his side, he would reply:

"And the sparrows of Springtime are nesting in the bullrushes."

"Can I have a box of envelopes?"

"Window or plain?"

Those were the good old days, although we didn't know it at the time. Then the order came from those shadowy figures in the administration that the stores were to be closed down and in future an electronic ordering and a decentralised stationery storage system were to be introduced. Departments would assign the task to one or two individuals and anything not available in the local stationery cupboard could be ordered weekly. Whether you needed it immediately or not.

"I'm sorry, madam, but could you please repeat your name, address and telephone number slowly? I have to learn them off by heart. I don't get a biro until Monday."

I went to the stores for some Post-Its. Gerry was dressed in a fire-proof suit and visor and was incinerating the last of the treasury tags with a flamethrower.

"Any Post-its, Gerry?" I shouted above the roar of the fire.

He lifted the visor briefly.

"Sorry, Willie. None in stock. You'll have to speak with the Stationery Procurement Officer in your own Department."

"What will you do now, Gerry?" I asked.

"I don't really know," he said, patting absently at a wayward flame that had started consuming some packets of permanent markers. "I suppose I'll be reassigned to the covert assassination section."

"Well, best of luck wherever you end up," I said.

He turned back to the consuming fires and blasted a box of photocopy paper into oblivion. The wooden hatch closed with a snap. I went back upstairs and found the Stationery Procurement Officer.

He was locking the stationery cupboard and pocketing the key. There was an empty cardboard delivery box beside him.

"Any Post-Its?" I asked.

"Not today. We just received an order. I can ask for Post-Its in the next order."

"What did we get today?"

"Stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Yes, stuff."

He looked at me. I looked at the locked cupboard.

"Can I see?"

"If you saw, I would have to kill you."

"I understand."

I paused and thought for a moment.

I said: "The swans of April are shedding their winter plumage early this year."

The Stationery Procurement Officer said nothing.

I said: "Apples are ripening in the eastern orchards by the rippling ponds."

No reply.

I said: "You're wearing a cleverly designed rubber mask disguise, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Are you about to take it off and reveal your true identity?"

"No."

"Can I order some Post-Its for next week then?"

"I'll see what I can do."

I miss the good old days.

Daffodil Day office collection

"Would you like to buy an impromptu raffle ticket for a raffle confined to our department in aid of Daffodil Day which is on Friday 23rd March in aid of cancer and if you win you'll be donated the use of a car parking space by one of the senior staff in the almost never free car park and you can park there all day and not have to worry about car-parking attendants or car-parking stickers or clampers or being towed away or your car being crushed and it's only €3 per ticket and the draw will be in half an hour?"

"I don't own a car."

"Ah."

Huzzah!

Made it to Friday.

It's been a poxy week and today I started off wearing odd socks for luck, for as luck would have it two odd socks were paired up in the drawer when I took them out and I already had one on when I noticed. That's about as lucky as the day went. After that, no figures would balance, no report would report, no feckin numbers would crunch.

I have not established exactly how long before an election an election candidate may erect an election poster either. If anyone knows, please tell me.

Otherwise, I have learned my overtime cheque is spent already and is not going to be replenished in any near future by our Payroll section.

"We paid you two weeks overtime last paycheck," I am told.

Brian Cowan munched so much of it in tax I thought I'd only received the one and was quietly planning fiendish things for the second installment. On such notes did my day proceed to a 60th birthday teaparty for our boss. Songs and lemonade ensued, which was a pleasant ending to the week. I think I need beer.

Picture is of Ken Dodd, by the way.

Checklist for building a kitchen cupboard

Go to work. Check.
Go to meeting. Check.
Leave work at 12.30pm. Check.
Visit Veterinary Surgery before 1.00pm. Check.
Wait for bus. Check.
Listen to Thump! as arse hits ground having actually frozen off. Check.
Get home late because of bloody buses. Check.
Visit blogs on PC. Check.
Make tea. Check.
Drink tea and eat slice rhubarb pie. Check.
Chase ginger cat out of garden with broom. Check.
Spend 15 minutes in bathroom. Check.
Say Hello to cat in bedroom. Check.
Change out of work clothes. Check.
Bang head on staircase looking for boots. Check.
Open flatpack and follow instructions. Check.

Easy.

Honesty best policy

Probably because I have spent so much time tapping away on keyboards and pressing buttons on computer screens "Just to see what happens", I tend to have a bit more confidence when it comes to fixing problems found on PCs in the office. This has translated into the dreaded "Computer Whizz" title, which is not deserved. I try to tell people they can do the same if they just use the Force. But they still come looking for help.

"Can you fix our projector?" I am asked.
"I'll take a look. What's its problem?"
"I can't get the remote to advance the pages in my presentation."

So I end up in an office with a 1,000,000 watt projector lamp shining on a wall where the paint is beginning to peel in the heat, poking at buttons on a remote control not unlike the one I use every night to watch my digital TV channels.

"Do you have the manual?" I ask.

A single printed page with labels pointing at a photo of the remote is produced. The labels say much the same thing as the labels already physically printed on the buttons of the remote control. The "OK" button is labelled "OK button", and so on.

"I haven't got a clue what's wrong," I say.

There is an audible intake of breath. Someone drops a teacup heavily onto the floor. I'm asked:

"You mean to tell me you don't know how to fix it...?"

"Absolutely not. Goodbye and good luck."

Yesterday I was asked how to remove Comments from a Word document. You know the type that the boss likes to add to a report that needs editing.

"Haven't got a baldy clue. Never used them before. Try the View menu, or something."

Then, to complete the hattrick of woe, someone asked me:

"I've lost the controls on the bottom of my spreadsheet. Can you get it back?"

I pressed the Maxmise button on the window and the controls re-appeared.

My reputation for perfection restored, I scurried back to my own office and basked in the beautiful music of the renewed songs of praise that echoed around the building in wonderful harmonies.

Contacting your inner pigeon

When the slightly eccentric looking Blond Woman of a Certain Age sat down and started rooting in her handbag I was already ten minutes into the bus journey and was at the very end of the outer limits of my nerves. I had spent the day in my least favourite work activity -- trying to balance accounts -- and all I wanted to do was get home, get fed, and get sat in my favourite armchair in front of my favourite television programmes.

The scent of Vicks chest rub wafted over the bus passengers from someone down the back.

Blond Lady of a Certain Age lifted a bottle of Benecol to her lips and took a giant swig. Then she opened up a bank letter (Balance more than €5,000 I noted, over her shoulder) before stuffing it back in her purse. Then, unexpectedly, she started eating the segments of an orange out of a tupperware lunchbox.

It was a slightly spoiled orange of the type that lets off a faintly acrid odour but is nonetheless edible.

Then the coughing started from somewhere behind me. A man, with a cough like the call of a wood pigeon:

"Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"

Oh bugger.

"Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"

Me nerves.

"Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-HOOOOO!"

Silence.

Thank God.

"Whoo...!"

We all waited for the next "Hoo!" Nothing. There was a palpable sense of relief from those of us not listening through headphones to scritch-scritch-scritching music.

"WHOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOOOOO!"

Only forty more minutes to my bus stop.

Next time I see that Blond Woman of a Certain Age I'm going to tell her to keep her oranges to herself. I'll probably get thrown off the bus.

My turn to get the dread Lurgy, or its cousin

Was quite happy to get back to the day job yesterday, until, as it wore on the pressure in my lower jawbone and around my left eye hinted at the return of a seasonal tooth-and-synus problem. Possibly the notion of being in the office led to some involuntary jaw clenching, but as I went through the emails that had accumulated over my prolonged Christmas holiday, I was comfortable enough with what I found there. My colleagues had looked after my mails and the procedures necessary to keep work moving forward admirably.

"Do you suffer with synus?" my boss said when I complained in passing that I was starting to feel bunged up. "Have you any Sinutab? People who suffer with synus swear by Sinutab."

"Well, I have some problems with my teeth that are adding to it," I replied. "Possibly the start of an abcess."

That was enough.

"There's nothing worse than an abcess. You know, the only solution I could find to one was to hold my head under a cold tap for hours at a time?"

I nodded. My boss is prone to migraine, sweet tooth, and other maladies as a result of stress the same as I am. His solutions and stories are always entertaining though.

"I went to the doctor," he said, "And he gave me an injection for the pain. Well, Jesus Christ! I don't know what the drug was, but if someone had two of them you'd have a serious drugs problem in a minute!

"You see that building over there? Well I got home and I was as high as it! Floating!"

He then proceeded to tell me how the dentist had to drill his tooth (without an injection, which, he said, might help spread infection. I didn't quite see that logic, but however.) to relieve the abcess. I was glad I'd already had my dinner.

I got home last night and the pain started up properly. I had a night of half hours -- half an hour covering my face with a blanket. Half an hour sitting on the side of the bed. Half an hour holding my head up. Half an hour lying down. Each new movement relieved some problem or caused another one.

So, no work today. Antibiotics, pain killers, lots of fluids instead. I hope to get back to the office tomorrow.

The eighth plague of Egypt

"I'm tired looking at the box of chocolates. Bring it into work."

So I dutifully obeyed. A two-pound box of Cadbury milk chocolates. General, ordinary sweets are something no-one eats among my workmates, until one actually goes looking for one. Then there are none left. Obviously they evaporate into the air or something, quite spontaneously.

"I'll be given out to by the Weight Watchers woman," was one complaint I heard. Nonetheless, the hand went into the box and made a selection.

"Who brought them in?" was the accusatory tone of another. It was accompanied by the sound of rummaging.

Yesterday I looked at the discarded box and wrapping. One whole day they had lasted, which is something of a record.

And the livin' is easy

I've finally made it to my annual leave, which starts tomorrow for two weeks. No more... well, no more doing so many undesirable things that I just don't want to recall any of them to mind, really.

I've been in holiday mode for about a week in my mind, so the transition won't be as abrupt as, say two years ago, when Herself and I sat looking at each other for about one week of our two weeks holiday wondering what you do on leave. Nor like last year, when, improving as we were, the crossover from work mode to holiday took three of four days. This year I'm ready to rock.

Don't know what's wrong with the head, though. Depression being a fine companion these past decades, one usually is aware of what's bringing one's mood down. At worst, it tends to affect in a way I can cope with by using a step-by-step solution. Some days that can be as bad as "Okay. You've reached the bathroom. Now turn on the tap. You've washed the face. Now apply the shaving foam...." and so on. This time, I have the same feeling one gets with writers block. A kind of frustration. An inability to do anything constructive.

I suspect it is the unrelenting good weather, which we Irish are unaccustomed to dealing with! Balmy nights of broken sleep due to heat and poor air circulation have continued for several weeks now. This past week, things have cooled down and some semblance of normality is returning to sleep patterns.

I note too that Herself and I were both like the people in those old Golden Pages television adverts, where disaster was averted at the last minute by the services available in the phone book, and whose sighed hugely with relief when the problem was averted. High pressure work being removed (even with my mental preparedness this year) has resulted in the two of us doing passable impersonations of rag dolls these past couple of days. Tomorrow, when Monday rolls around and neither of us walk into a busy office, will hopefully see us getting into true holiday mode. I'll keep you posted.

Tea and a Relaxing Drive with Carmel

In our work canteen they swapped over some months ago from a large, smouldering tea urn, which produced a brown, lava-like substance to what seemed at the time to be an elegant substitute -- individual stainless steel teapots and a nice, new hot water boiler. It was self-service all the way and if Mary wanted tea like cabbage-water and Willie wanted tea like tar, then so be it. Everyone was now responsible for their own.

Theory is fine, but practice proved different to expectations. No-one seems capable of finding the optimum filling level in the miniature teapots and several forests worth of napkins have been sacrificed moping up spillages. It's like trying to pour tea through six spouts at once. No matter which way you tilt the cup or half-fill the pot, this golden fountain spews forth onto the saucer, the tabletop, your work colleagues, the floor. It's just one more nerve-brittling part of a stressful day and we seem to have come to accept it as we have irate customers and irrational orders from on high. Why shouldn't every tray be wet and dripping when first picked up from the pile? Hasn't it always been that way?

It was therefore with a certain amount of astonishment that I found that things didn't work that way in our sub-office in Clondalkin, where the smaller staffing levels mean a full-time canteen staff is not warranted. The calm of the Clondalkin office canteen is perhaps due to the fact that they use teabags the old-fashioned way, straight into the cup and out again using a real spoon.

I found this out on a training visit there in 2005 when several staff were updating their computer skills. Carmel Smith, one of the teabreak mafia I like to join in with at head office, was there and though I didn't suspect it at the time, was going to play a great part in getting my memory cells working later in the day. I don't mean in the "Do you remember when?" kind of way. Rather it was more "My life is passing in front of my eyes."

Carmel has recently learned the art of driving a mechanically-propelled vehicle, in her case a small, pale blue Fiant Panda. It still had learner plates on it when I climbed into the cockpit as navigator on the way back to HQ after the training session ended.

"You'll have to show me where to drive," was Carmel's first remark. Now, while I understood that the one-way system in Clondalkin Village is a little intricate, the fact that I don't know how to drive seemed to have been overlooked by Carmel. The blind were going to lead the blind in one of the busiest traffic snarlups in South Dublin County.

I started to worry when I saw Carmel mouthing a prayer to St. Christopher before checking the mirror. If we needed intercession with the divine already, it didn't bode well. I double-checked my seatbelt.

We took off at a sedate pace and were soon wending our way through the hurried crowds. Carmel was surprisingly calm, although she interspersed her concentration on things automotive by telling me she actually wasn't very calm. In fact, she said, she was very nervous. She was glad I was along. An extra pair of eyes to watch out for danger.

I remember rosary beads. There were several incomplete sets in the kitchen drawer back in the day. By coincidence, one even had quite a nice St Christopher medal on its broken chain.

Carmel's small blue Fiant Panda is about the size and temperament of a large bee and Carmel drove it that way, buzzing about the traffic, peering into wing mirrors and watching all around her. I was reminded of one of those World War I movies, maybe The Blue Max, where the hero with the stiff upper lip, leather flying helmet and goggles scours the sky for enemies.

We trundled back and forth between traffic lights and I advised on lane changes and signalling. I peered out the passenger window, watching for biplanes sweeping down out of the sun. We checked our position on the compass a few times, but the mission was going smoothly. At last, sweeping over the Belgard Road, we went hard over to the right and landed with a slight bump back at HQ. The engine was switched off and silence reigned. I unclenched. All in all it was a creditable performance. Carmel's training days were nearly over.

We heard that Carmel was taking the driving test a few weeks later. Funnily enough, there was a full complement in the safety of the staff canteen for the hour that she was absent, reversing around corners and doing three-point turns. A somewhat stunned Carmel returned with a pass and we all breathed sighs of relief.

The wee blue car is still on the go, despite a scrape or two. It had a luggage box added last week which whistles.

"It's like a fecking ceili band!" someone complained. Carmel, of course, just laughed.

More power to you Carmel!

Especially at the traffic lights.

Rising

My Uncle Billy, who ran a pitch 'n' putt golf course used to say: "There's nothing worse than the public." I thought this a strange one from someone who depended on the public for his livelihood, then understood a little when I looked at vandalised bridges, broken flag-sticks and other pointless destruction wrought by the public on the golf course, until finally I understood completely when I took a job dealing by telephone with them.

My love and I both work in high-pressure jobs, not that our wages reflect it. Although our jobs are different, we try our best to satisfy and serve as many people as possible within the limits of what can be done (often different to what should be done). People occasionally thank us for our efforts, or ask us to thank our bosses on their behalf.

But one thing that happens, at least daily, is that the great Irish public displays its mettle by eating the arse off one or both of us. In my experience you have the "I want it now" type, who wasn't dropped enough times on his head as a kid, or, at the other extreme, the genuinely fucked-around-with type that a dozen never-to-be-repeated coincidences and delays have pissed off so badly that he just wants to decapitate the first eegit to say "Hello" on the other end of the telephone line.

So I got balloons.

I took a packet and a half and started blowing them up at a quarter-to-seven this evening. Fuck the cats, they could wait ten minutes longer to be fed. I huffed and puffed and filled the room with brightly-coloured latex bags of air and we watched them bump about. Happy little opinionless people filled the floor.


A large group of them swayed about as if discussing the doings of the day. Then I put on a television programme about building houses and they sat in rapt attention for the first half hour.

Some turned about to exchange glances with their neighbours when the builders proved inept, or the cost of restoration of shoddy workmanship came up, but generally -- and especially the orange one in the front row -- they stayed glued to the subject.

The elder cat eyed a red one suspiciously. I have a feeling it's the reason she didn't finish off the full portion of Whiskas this evening. I'll have to keep an eye on that one if it intends to continue making trouble.

I have some uninflated spares, which I think I'll introduce into the company if any go astray. It's possible they might, either by accident, or by something they learned from watching television shows. There are books about, too, so they might consider reading while we sleep tonight. I think it's fun that you never really know what they're going to do next.

Flathead syndrome carriers unite!

Carmel Smith announced:

"I'm a flathead!"

As Carmel's head is as round as a pea, this came as something of a revelation over the tea-cups in the staff restaurant. We are refraining from calling it the canteen, by the way.

Carmel had agreed to help Joyce's hair-cutting class by attending a session as a subject-cum-guinea-pig and the instructor had nonchalantly stabbed her in the back of the neck with a scissors after announcing that she was a flathead and that certain haircuts complimented her head shape. Carmel got mileage out of that one, especially the stabbing! And that was that for several weeks.

Last night as we lay in bed, Herself was plagued with a most peculiar headache that would give no relief whether carried lying down or sitting up or walking about the house. She held the top of her head down with one hand as if it was about to fly off.

"I wonder am I having a stroke?" she said. I considered it unlikely and pulled the bedcovers back to my side. An opportunity to steal back the stolen comes but seldom. And that was that for the night.

This morning, I was startled to see Joyce sitting with her hand holding the top of her head as if it was about to fly off, and Mary holding her head in the same pose. It was kind of Monty Python-esque -- a salute for all flatheads everywhere, perhaps. Or the Secret Society of Flatheads. They both reported savage headaches in the night. Something viral must be doing the rounds.

Now I don't know whether I'm a carrier of the syndrome who wafts flatheadishness about in an invisible aura or whether Carmel Smith is shedding flatheadedness at random. The headaches haven't come yet. But if you see me with one hand in a top-of-the-cranium salute, you'll know what happened.

Edit: Since writing the above, I've discovered that several visitors have been finding the piece by searching for a genuine medical condition known as "Flathead Syndrome." Please visit this link to read more about the condition.