29 jun
A cycle of sleepless winter nights
My olfactory receptors are already surging memories of sweat, chain lubricant and rubber through my mind. The small cavern of my brain allocated to languages is thinking more in French than English, a considerable feat because it’s more than a decade since I learnt a few words of French at night classes and would find it a stretch to ask for more than bread and a glass of citron pressé. But, for the next month, I can read Le Monde and understand it!
The Tour de France is coming. And the Australian television station with viewing rights is Showing. Every. Stage. Live. In. Its. Entirety. Woo. Hoo. And judging by the length of this post already, I cannot stop crapping on about my excitement. Fetch me some tarte tatin with a slug of Calvados while I settle into the beanbag for the night. Sorry work, I spent last night planning the annual leave days I’ll be taking after the longer stages because I’m not as functional on no sleep as I used to be.
The niggardly television coverage may seem like the dark ages to any European readers, but cycling has always been a fringe sport here. Any pursuit not involving a Sherrin football or a cricket ball is relegated to late-night snippets and perhaps a brief showing in the evening news if an Australian is doing unexpectedly well and it’s not footy or cricket season. I don’t give a shit about Carlton versus Collingwood these days but I can happily engage in a Campagnolo versus Shimano debate until my tongue falls out of my mouth.
When I moved out of home and lived in Melbourne’s beachside suburbs, I was only 50 metres from the beach and would watch the hard-core bike riders putting in the miles at ungodly hours of the morning. I just knew the sport was for me, bought a bike and hit Beach Road with little more than enthusiasm. A day of revelation came on a Sandringham to Frankston ride that other people used the gear levers on their bikes when going up and down hills (yes, young people, gears in the brake hood did come down in the last shower). I met my first coach on the side of the road in Mentone where I was having issues repairing a flat tyre and was kicking my bike in frustration. He pulled over and helped me, and introduced me to training and racing with a club.
The cycling virus spread through my body and grew into joining training squads, more coaches, a nutritionist, someone who’d put my body back together after I hurt it too much, a custom-built bike built for my bodily geometry, computers, heart rate monitors, 4.30am starts to get pre-winter road miles in before work, a special bike for the track with no gears or brakes, special shoes for the special track bike. Lost somewhere in my personal papers will be a bound stack of yearly training diaries with my daily heart rate, training programs and notes, general state of health, weight (I wish I had more photos of myself at racing weight because I don’t believe those small numbers), monthly kilometres, race results – a chronicle of who I was for many years.
There was a period I was competitive at a reasonable club level and in the state women’s series and the decision beckoned to work full time and remain a handy cyclist, or reduce work and aim for the state or national institute of sport and be careerless, but have realised my physical potential. I ended up not making a conscious decision and drifted along in the former until time made the decision for itself.
Vive le tour and allez Cadel Evans, who I think has a shot at winning the maillot jaune this year (and not just because of my selfish desire for more news coverage).
Crank-o-meter: a week to go, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?
27 Jun
I’m over the news for the week, so here, catch up on updates of earlier blog entries.
The Woman who took over my Office
“The Law of Retrospective Self-Induced Crankiness says I should not have let the Bushpig from Hell set up camp in my office to do a ‘project.’ It’s only day two but there’s enough motivation here to buy wood and build more office accommodation tonight. The personable woman to whom I said yes has morphed into a human PA system — how does a five-foot-nothing woman pack 120 decibels? — and is obsessed with pontificating about how great the olden days were with other thunderous people in her clan. Yeah yeah, there was no crime 20 years ago, cars didn’t need seatbelts back then, the new generation has no idea about anything, blah blah blah, shut up so I can get on with organising the Dinosaur Olympics and nominate you all.”
She’s still here and I was going to write a post to swallow my earlier words. After a bit of talking and a lot of listening, we realised the same stuff shits us off but our methods of communication are different (she quotes policy and screeches using acceptable language; I swear like a trooper and curse silly policy written by dumbarse fools). We are learning from each other and causing mayhem when the opportunity arises. And we do the double chest-tapping sign of respect when the banter is flowing -respect!
However, I have an iss-ewe. My menstrual cycle is shortening to a completely unacceptable 23 days, which may be because the office comprises three women not on the pill. I want my cycle to be dominant, damn it. And she’s imported a rotating cycle of new helpers at my spare desk — any females can bugger off unless they have been stuffed with contraceptive pills or have passed menopause. My office, my style of democracy.
Stony Point Seal
“A war of the mammals has broken out in Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula region because of a juvenile fur seal with a bung eye and dented head. “Sammy”, as some creative anthropomorphists have named him, has taken up residence at the Stony Point boat ramp alongside the pelicans and seagulls.”
I spoke to some local people who launch boats to escape family life and pretend to hunt for fish, and the lunch-stealing seal has not been spotted for some time. I think this could be bad news, considering the l’il dude swam 70 kilometres to return to Stony Point after being relocated. He’s too young to be on the prowl for lady seals, so my bets are the government stole him away in the night, a shark got hungry or people who catch fish took matters into their own hands. I hope I’m wrong.
Dolly Magazine
“Some headlines change but some stay the same, like preparing for the first time (to have sex, I presume), getting a boy’s attention and wearing clothes. Let’s hope the stories are presented in reverse order to avoid confusion on the big day.
I don’t know how much of the fluff in teenagers’ magazines is absorbed and how much is forgotten until it’s regurgitated in another issue, but one headline pissed me off big time: Be the girl everyone loves. No, no, no, no, no. No.”
boo, I’m waiting for you. As I wrote in the comments, if you can give me three ways Dolly is awesome, I’ll buy the next three issues and write a letter of compliment to the editor. I am not joking. I am crazy enough to do this. I have a computer with e-mail and I’m not afraid to use it. Tick, tick, tick.
The Lazy F#$ker Dialogues
I have searched the suburbs and located a treasure trove of deserted furniture, including a stylin’ velvet chair in a bilious 1970s shade of lime, but I’ve been coming and going in the dark lately and can’t catalogue them for your viewing and purchasing pleasure. Hurry up daylight!
Oh Yeah, the Job Interview
“Interview I’ll have the question about the department’s current priorities down pat because a recent independent inquiry is a treasure chest of critical and embarrassing findings. The paradox of one finding is that the agency is understaffed … hey, why does it take six months to review resumes and form a recruitment panel anyway?”
This is my new favourite example of being amazed at how our government manages to function. I went to the panel interview and nearly all of the questions were hypothetically-based and assumed candidates knew the agency’s processes and policies.
I got especially cranky about a question because it was stupid and I didn’t want to keeping guessing the agency’s mysterious ways of doing business any more. The kindly head of the selection panel prompted me to ask what I might have seen on a reality television show and draw upon it for answers. Right.
I got a call yesterday to say the agency would like to reference check me. The silence was embarrassing after I told her I withdrew from the process by telephone, and online, the day after the interview just to make sure the message got through.
Crank-o-meter: laughing, laughing I tell you mwa ha ha ha ha ha
25 jun
A 28-year-old woman in South Australia has been arrested and charged with neglecting five of her seven children. The woman allegedly did not provide adequate food, shelter or necessary medical attention for her children and faces charges of criminal neglect, acts to endanger life and acts likely to cause harm.
A raid on two neighbouring houses occurred – and up to 21 children removed — after the woman called an ambulance to attend her five-year-old boy, who was found to be suffering hypothermia and malnutrition.
A number of “should haves” are rattling the cage of this story including the relevant government departments should have acted earlier, the police should have acted more urgently on neighbours’ complaints, neighbours should have taken more notice and complained more, family members should have seen and done something a long time ago, the woman’s kids should be able to grow up in a safer and more caring environment, and so on.
But there’s an equally tragic “should” in the present tense. The woman is pregnant again – what should happen to the foetus?
If she is convicted and goes to jail?
If her mental health deteriorates and she’s at risk of suicide?
If she has no family who can care for her seven other children and they are separated into emergency care or foster homes?
If she is within the legal timeframe for abortion? If she’s not?
If one or more of her children had died from neglect?
Based on evidence, the woman won’t (and shouldn’t) have the legal right to raise another baby or decide its immediate and longer-term future. She has no family in South Australia as far as I have been able to tell, so we can only hope the government does its best to salvage the child’s life when it comes into the world.
Crank-o-meter: fuck
23 jun
There’s something about short days and long nights that makes me go to bed early and curl up with a book (or dozen).
I read quite a bit on the computer screen during the day, but it’s a harsh white and cold equivalent to smelling a new book, putting the first crease in the spine and quietly thanking the clever person who put the words in it.
Crank-o-meter: back soon
21 jun
The ones who love you can hurt the most
I’ve had rose-coloured glasses on with my obsession to serve on a jury for a criminal trial. In my mind I am a juror on a juicy murder case that lasts for weeks, and debate with people with whom I have nothing in common except we have the exciting task of steering someone’s future.
After being on the electoral roll for 20 years, I have never been summoned. There was a period when my pride felt dented and I was tempted to call the Department of Justice to volunteer, especially considering the number of people who avoid the task like the plague.
Reality kicked in after catching up with this week’s national news. I can’t imagine many things more distressing than poring over the minutiae of this handful of trials.
1. A Sydney women was found guilty of manslaughter following the death of her husband in 2006, and her friend was convicted of being an accessory before the fact of manslaughter. The 75-year-old man with Alzheimer’s disease died from a lethal dose of Nembutal: four months prior to his death he had been rejected for a legally-assisted suicide in Switzerland based on his mental state at the time. He changed his will a week before he died, leaving more than $2 million to his wife. In a peculiar postscript, the woman awaiting sentencing as an accessory has terminal cancer.
2. In Melbourne a man is facing more than 30 charges after allegedly hosting ‘conversion parties’ to deliberately infect men with HIV. The prosecutor said the accused aimed to increase the pool of HIV-infected men as potential future partners to engage in unprotected sex. Jurors have been asked to set aside their prejudices as the case will contain some ‘bizarre’ details.
3. Two parents in Brisbane have been charged with murder and torture after the decomposing bodies of their 18-month-old twins were found in their cot. They weighed only four and 3.6 kilograms respectively and the coroner is expected to rule their deaths a result of malnutrition. The couple’s other four children are in the care of a grandmother.
4. A 38-year-old man in Victoria has been charged with murdering his 67-year-old brother three days before Christmas last year. The man’s remains were found in bushland five months after he disappeared.
I don’t know whether to have sympathy or scorn regarding the first case, am experiencing blind fury thinking about the second, deep sadness pondering the dead and surviving children in the third, and a mix of fascination and revulsion in the last case. I’d dread being called to decide any of their fates.
Crank-o-meter: down
19 jun
All I need is the air that I breathe, and a gold medal
Athletics Australia has issued a directive (oh, how I wish I had the power to issue directives *sigh*) that Australia’s track and field team for the Beijing Olympics will not attend the opening ceremony due to concerns about air quality. Athletes will be bunkered down in similarly warm but less polluted Asian cities and fly in for a last-minute dash at winning medals.
As much as most ceremonies are boring as batshit on TV, if I weren’t so unqualified to compete in anything but knitting and scoffing chocolate, I’d want to parade around the track with millions of couch potatoes hating my guts for being so fit and pompous and cheery in the green and gold. Watch me at the front of the Australian contingent flashing the sign with AUSTRALIA on one side and HI MUM! on the other as I pass the cameras with a shit-grin on my face.
The only thing that could stop me prancing about at an opening ceremony is a health risk like respiratory problems, which is a concern for several proper athletes with asthma. The Chinese Government has done its darndest to reduce the brown pall of smog by banning building and construction work, taking a million cars off the road and halting heavy industry in the area. Allegedly, there’s also been the environmental equivalent of sweeping the dust under the rug with some photographers refusing to work on polluted days for fear of government retribution.
The Olympics are not only a chance for the world’s best performance-enhancing drug labs to show off their wares like it’s a genetic engineering show’n’tell, the Games are a great way of celebrating the coming together of the world’s carbon emissions. Los Angeles missed out in 1984 because the warming of our atmosphere was less of a global concern and perhaps pooey air didn’t seem so offensive on televisions lacking today’s colour definition. China has an atmospheric quality problem with layers of the Gobi Desert blowing in regularly, however, the majority of pollution is a representation of the waste the country produces in manufacturing things for the rest of the world.
Australia’s annual imports from China are $A29 billion (or more than $A1,500 per citizen if I calculated properly) and ranks only fifteenth of China’s export markets by value. Australia sends more than $A23 billion of goods to China, including metals and energy, to make a lot of things that are transported back for the retail market.
Beijing represents the black lungs of a planet gone wild on plentiful credit and the rest of the world can’t be critical of China taking on the dirty work. Waste can’t be outsourced; it’s everyone’s problem regardless of its location.
Australian athletes will generate additional pollution flying in and out of the venue but can’t breathe the by-products of these activities? Sorry, it’s your smog, too.
Crank-o-meter: cough cough
17 jun
The female of the species: clean up your acts
Women of all ages and teenage girls, listen the f#$k up. And young girls, if you’ve landed here accidentally, you can damn well read up as well and listen for once to Godmother Cranky.
Stop treating public toilets like your communal skid pans.
What is it about not having to clean their own mess turns clean, civilised women into a pack of projectile urinating, vomiting and shitting bush pigs with no sense of aim as soon as they enter a public toilet?
I was in Melbourne today and made the mistake of remaining hydrated. By the time I got to Flinders Street station (iconic and renovated but still shithouse hub of public transport in the city) I had to use the toilet. I have the bladder of a pedigreed stable of racing camels but the watermelon-in-my-pelvis pain told me I wouldn’t last the journey home on this occasion. It was either hold my legs together trying to get down the escalator to avoid causing localised flooding or face the public toilets. I reluctantly chose the latter.
Seaweed in my teeth from a tasty Japanese lunch? How the f#$k would I know because there are no mirrors? They’ve been replaced with sheets of stainless steel, much like piss troughs in men’s toilets that have been reduced, re-used, recycled.
The other women waiting in line had the same ‘about to face a pap smear with a cold speculum’ look on their faces while waiting for a vacant cubicle. I poked my head in one but the stench and accumulated grime of bodily waste was too much so I returned to the end of the queue, nearly causing an argument with the woman behind me because she thought the cubicle was eminently usable. Do not argue with me on this – I will piss where I don’t feel the urge to throw up, thank you. I have peed on the ground, in holes, behind trees and into buckets and I’d rather risk a snake bite to the butt cheek in the bush than straddle that frigging cubicle. You use it if it’s that good.
The next cubicle had no door lock but the floor was reasonably clean so I did a version of human origami to stand over the grimy seat, hold one leg in front of me to jimmy the door shut and the other leg splayed to the side to counterbalance. Thank christ no one tried to push the door in as there’d have been biohazard spills and broken legs galore. After mastering the urinating wobbly crane yoga position to complete my task, I had to re-bend aching muscles to reach the toilet paper roll and press the button. Oh, bliss, someone had smeared purple bubble gum over it. Thankfully there was enough toilet paper to dislodge some sticky saliva-ridden chewy off the button for the next person’s convenience.
Other members of the sisterhood have to clean up your human waste and are paid jack shit for doing it to put food on their tables. Have some goddamn respect.
And stop wearing ugg boots in public. Cameron Diaz gets away with it because she’s rich and famous and can afford to be post-ironic. The rest of us aren’t allowed to scuffle like arthritic sheep in furry slippers so wear shoes please.
Crank-o-meter: thankfully it was too dim to take photos, because I was going to
15 jun
This afternoon was set aside to research and brush up for a job interview this week. Instead, I have completed a masterclass in procrastination; it’s almost time to locate food for the evening meal and I just fired up the computer.
Criterion one: Ability to interpret and implement legislation, operational and technical procedures and protocols and their application.
What the f$%k? I’m a bit impressed I scored an interview after re-reading the literary diarrhoea I slapped on the page to address that one. I daren’t post it because you’ll either start some whacko cult in my honour, or piss yourself laughing and send me the carpet cleaning bill.
The government has something to answer for in telling its citizens that more than three glasses of wine in a sitting is now defined as binge drinking, then encourage its agencies to produce meaningless selection criteria to attract people who are driven to alcohol to come up with enough bullshit to answer the questions. Hypocrites. And I’m out of booze so I have to do my research sober – ouch.
I’ll have the question about the department’s current priorities down pat because a recent independent inquiry is a treasure chest of critical and embarrassing findings. The paradox of one finding is that the agency is understaffed … hey, why does it take six months to review resumes and form a recruitment panel anyway?
Damn, time to make dinner because I can’t concentrate on this stuff on an empty stomach.
Crank-o-meter: sceptical
13 jun
I cracked the sads at being forced to request a log-in for another work computer program (that I haven’t been trained on and isn’t working but I must have it, I’m told). Oh look, that’ll be another password to remember. Let me walk the application form to this shredder here and file it.
I was told I was being stubborn and it’s not that much effort. Thank you boss of the blindingly obvious, I know I’m stubborn — especially when I’m correct and have reached password overload. I cannot — and do not — want another log-in to remember for something I don’t have, don’t want and have lived so long without. Enough is enough. Shredder on, please leave hair and jewellery clear of the blades.
It took only 10 minutes to demonstrate that my meltdown is a real condition suffered by burnt-out, rapidly-aging public servants in the workplace (and I’m sure afflicts people other than me, me, me). I tallied 19 systems with passwords that need maintaining, plus a workaround for an account that doesn’t work because application with a sledgehammer is easier than getting an outsourced techo to fix the damn machine while it’s in warranty. Only two systems can talk to each other and log in automatically; the other 17 have to stand alone. Remember to oil the shredder’s moving mechanisms regularly.
And the rules for each system’s password differ. Apart from the standards of don’t write them down, don’t use words found in the dictionary, don’t use birthdates, don’t use people’s names, we have a conflicting mix of additional rules.
Must be more than eight characters, fewer than eight characters, exactly eight characters, use wildcard characters, don’t use wildcard characters, must be uppercase and lower case, must be only lower case, don’t try to use the last 24 passwords, don’t use the same passwords on more than one network, change them monthly, don’t change them monthly and we’ll kill the very existence of your account, forget a password and you have to complete online training to get it back again, but you’ll never get it back because the help desk number is never answered. Live in fear of us in control of your computing destiny, mere user account owner. My brain wobbles in fright just thinking about the ‘password expired’ message appearing on the screen. Love your shredder and it’ll serve you well throughout your career.
I proved my point (though I didn’t really need to do a booty shake around the office), and now everyone is counting on their fingers and toes the number of passwords they have to remember. Stand behind me in the complaint line behind the shredder and shut up.
Shreddings are a fine source of carbon for the compost.
Crank-o-meter: noooooooooo, stop at 19
11 jun
It takes more than money to build a good hybrid marriage
The collective groan heard across south-east Asia yesterday afternoon was the hybrid-powered orgasm from Australia’s Federal and State Governments and Japanese vehicle manufacturer Toyota. They courted and fell in love after a whirlwind romance and I seem to be the crabby mother-in-law who knows the government will come out poorer when the honeymoon is over.
If the media announcements are to be taken at face value, the arranged marriage between the government and the car maker to manufacture its newest hybrid vehicle in Australia is the biggest hook-up since the recycled toilet paper crossword and my bum.
My dear government, I care for you and hate to be the stick in the mud relative messing with the wedding plans, but you’re still in the lust-fuelled phase of this partnership. What trinkets have you promised Toyota this week as dowry? Thirty-five million dollars – tick. The pre-purchase of two thousand hybrid cars for government use – tick. Choosing to turn a blind eye to Toyota’s current fuel-guzzling children including the Landcruiser (13.0-20.9 litres/100km), and the half-brother Camry (9.9-12.5 litres/100km) while lauding its ‘green’ credentials.
Why have you forgotten in your engagement announcements Toyota’s teenage love child, the Prius? Already hybrid, already in production, already twice the fuel efficiency (4.4 litres/100km) of the planned Camry hybrid and already in some government department fleets? And only a few thousand dollars’ difference in price. I bet if you order two thousand you’ll get a few bucks off the total with chrome trim and special anniversary decals thrown in. See your dealer today.
Crank-o-meter: f#$king cynical
09 jun
It’s an uncommonly sunny early winter’s day, I’ve had a guilt-free sleep-in, a belly full of nutritious food and it’s a public holiday. Of course, I can’t think of anything else to write about except death. The cloud is in my head at the moment and it wants to speak – it usually causes me to hide from the world until its arsewipey brand of mayhem settles but today it wants a voice.
I don’t intend to ruin a perfectly good day off, but this is important. We as a society still aren’t allowed to know why our friends and family members sometimes don’t want the gift of life. We can occasionally peek into the darkness if a taken life is someone in the public eye, but after the shock factor is replaced by the next big story, no one returns to broadcast the why, the how, the what went wrong with this person’s time on this earth.
Ten years ago the suicides of three men shook the region I’m from. I grew up in a semi-rural town where we could walk to school, parents knew each other by first name and kids owned the footpaths with their BMX bicycles (and some of us fortunate with horses’ hooves clattering on the bitumen as we yahooed down the streets). When a member of the community’s family dies, it hits hard. When two are brothers and all three are self-inflicted in the same year, it rips a gaping hole in the fabric of society.
The third for the year, Andrew, was from a family I’ve known since I was a child. We went to each other’s eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays, engagement parties, weddings, housewarmings. Each of the hundreds of mourners at his funeral was still in shock, unable to move past the grieving phase of disbelief because he seemed happy, had a good job, reams of friends, a loving partner and doted on his young girl. How could this happen? At the time I was no wiser than anyone else – it didn’t make sense.
I have some clues now. It’s too easy. No one is better than a depressed person at faking life. It’s easier for us to say we’re okay and add another layer of falsity to our outer selves than subject our loved ones to the lumps of murk in our heads. We discount you as well and think you wouldn’t understand, or don’t want to understand, or we don’t want to hurt you with our truths, and we’re too scared of ourselves to award you the respect and honesty you deserve for being in our lives. Sometimes the simple act of reading the newspaper is enough to send us a level deeper when we get caught up in guilt for being absorbed in ourselves while others are homeless, starving, dying, truly hurting. Our guilt can kill us. It’s easier to hide under another layer of false adjustment than acknowledge and face our own selves. If I scare myself sometimes, there’s no way I’m going to let you into the chamber of horrors because no one scares me more than I do.
Andrew used to visit me in my dreams and tell me he was okay; I’d wake feeling confused but more accepting about his decision. I didn’t know if my dreams were a sixth sense kind of event, or transference from my subconscious mind telling me I was free to move his identity from a mystery to a fond memory. I’d like him to return so I can tell him I have walked in his shoes and I get it, I get it now, but I know he’s gone forever because I now understand. I think I know what it was like to be him.
I know I’m okay if I can discuss death because it signifies that my mindset has shifted from the practical to the abstract. Twice I’ve looked into the abyss where the next steps of planning and method stir in the mud but it’s remained an ugly trap rather than an escape route to a world without anguish. I can only speak for myself but this is how I imagine the end appears to people who take the final steps.
It is all right to talk about.
Crank-o-meter: I’ll be back
07 jun
I woke up with a case of not giving a shit about anything today.
It’s most appropriate that I found a crossword on the back of the toilet roll packaging. Whose weird-arsed idea is that?
Yeah, instead of leaving purchasers to crap in peace, we’ll distract them with a crossword and give it a witty name. And because it’s recycled bog roll, we’ll call the crossword creator Teresa Green, get it, trees are green. Marketing gold! Fat, lardy-butted bonus for this quarter, yeah!
I don’t keep pens in my f#$king toilet, a pair of f#$king scissors to cut the f#$king crossword out, and what if a feral visitor with a poor aim has sprayed on my crossword — it’s not f#$king waterproof. And I don’t have a clipboard or book to rest the crinkled crossword on because it’s all out of shape and hard to read from being used to, I don’t know, hold the f#$king rolls of toilet paper in one place. And I don’t have sticky notes stored with the toothbrush caddy to write “Please wash your f#$king hands before doing some of the clues on my dunny crossword.” Morons.
Crank-o-meter: bugger me stupid
5 jun
Yep, the high priestess of living without bullshit is hooked on horoscopes. Not the airy-fairy ones filled with general advice that could fit any star sign any day of the week, but the predictions that go out on a limb –I don’t care if they’re right or wrong as long as they’re written with conviction.
The kick-arse horoscope on my web search engine picked my day perfectly – I stuffed up and no one has found out yet. Another grand day in the public service, I reckon.
I was on a course about information management or something, lost interest for about 0.25 milliseconds when my grey matter lapsed into a pleasant daydream about what I might have for lunch. In the blink it took to return to attention, the class had launched into a complex data template creation movement and I was looking at a blank screen. Somehow upon waking up I clicked the ‘close everything you’ve learnt today, you fool’ button and had no idea how to reach the stage everyone else was on. I couldn’t spy on the nerds in front of me because I was one of the nerds at the front of the class.
I opened many screens, tiled them, clicked some buttons, tried to copy at my neighbour’s file structure and still could not rescue it. By then it was 20 minutes into the exercise and far too late to confess I had lost two hours of progress. I tapped into my butt-covering gene, learned to search and found the instructor’s document, copied it to my folder and changed some details so my screen looked respectable enough to pass inspection. Phew, I rock the house. Situation restored to normal and I went back to contemplating mayonnaise or Caesar dressing on my planned sandwich.
Then we learnt a key point of the software was that every keystroke is recorded and, oh look, press the ‘audit’ menu option and it shows exactly what the nuf-nuf user has done to the document. Mine popped up with ‘document created by Instructor’. Good thing an earlier addiction to Tetris taught me how to minimise screens at the speed of light. Move on, Mr Instructor Man, nothing to see here. Is it lunchtime yet?
Crank-o-meter: TGIF tomorrow
03 jun
From the last entry’s comments:
“Foodycat wrote,
Just don’t try to drive or operate heavy machinery, M’kay?”
M’kay. I’ll borrow the hatchback to get some more cold and flu pills – will be no more than 10 minutes, promise.
Crank-o-meter: vrooooooooooooom
01 jun
Magic 8 ball, I love you in sickness and in sickness
Another reason to love the web: an online magic 8 ball.
Crank-o-meter: blah