Hyper

Up bright and early this morning. I'm not entirely sure why, but hey, who cares? But I certainly was tired last night, yes indeed.

Last night was the final game of the regular quiz season - we finished the season resolutely last in the two divisions of the Quiz League of London. Not entirely sure why, we're not that bad a team - not great, but not bad. But this season, well...

As with many teams in many fields, once it was obvious that we couldn't finish any higher than last - that was sorted by our glorious defeat last week - we turned in a resounding and stylish victory just to prove that we could if we really wanted to. Of course, what this did to the morale of the TROGs, our worthy opponents, is anybody's guess. This season we've managed two wins, a draw and thirteen defeats. Both our wins came against the TROGs who had a realistic chance of promotion to division one until we torpedoed them.

Go figure.

As I have had occasion to mention in the past, I think, we play our home fixtures out of the Royal Oak in Tabard Street, just near Borough Station. Now, for those of us who are Claphamites, such as romney and Yours Truly, this is normally a merry 20 minute jaunt up the Northern Line. Except that last night the Northern Line closed down at 22.30 hours for urgent maintenance work.

This left us in a dilemma, romney and I. Skidaddle before closing time, or run the gauntlet of Red Ken's revitalised London Bus Service.

So at 23.30, full of BEER we found ourselves on Borough High Street standing in an underlit bus stop, warily surveying the few odd coves who wandered by muttering dark imprecations at the bus stop and lamp posts. After about 15 minutes the number 35 bus arrived and we poured on it. Now, as anyone knows who takes them regularly, London bus routes were designed by a macrame specialist.

So it was we slid smoothely through Elephant and Castle, Herne Hill, Brixton - at least one of which was on the direct route home - and on home to Clapham Common - which though at the wrong end of the High Street, is at least in civilisation.

So back in the front door at 12.30 am. Splendid.

Brew up a quick cup of horlicks and settle down to watch the taped episode of Stargate SG1.

Remember, folks, video cassettes have a limited life. The picture was lovely. The sound, however, even turned up full, was unfortunately muffled to the point of incomprehensibility, so I have no idea what happened and must now borrow a tape from a previously-primed colleague.

Of course, I inconveniently forgot that I'd turned the volume right up when I gave up trying to watch the tape. So when I turned it off, the sudden adrenaline rush as a zillion decibels erupted from the telly at 12.50am in a darkened house makes it all the more miraculous that I am bright and bushy-tailed after a good night's kip. Luckily I think the rapid yet brief aural onslaught stunned everyone else in the house into submission, so no one has said anything.

Prezzie time. My ebay goodies turned up this morning. Hurrah!

And for once, one of the Polish Brigade (tm) took the delivery so despite my incompetent attempts to get my trousers on at 7.30am in the second adrenaline rush in 10 hours, I have my toys.

Maybe the threat of very loud telly in the early hours has softened them...

I guess I ought to get ready for work, now. Boo.

Hyper

Up bright and early this morning. I'm not entirely sure why, but hey, who cares? But I certainly was tired last night, yes indeed.

Last night was the final game of the regular quiz season - we finished the season resolutely last in the two divisions of the Quiz League of London. Not entirely sure why, we're not that bad a team - not great, but not bad. But this season, well...

As with many teams in many fields, once it was obvious that we couldn't finish any higher than last - that was sorted by our glorious defeat last week - we turned in a resounding and stylish victory just to prove that we could if we really wanted to. Of course, what this did to the morale of the TROGs, our worthy opponents, is anybody's guess. This season we've managed two wins, a draw and thirteen defeats. Both our wins came against the TROGs who had a realistic chance of promotion to division one until we torpedoed them.

Go figure.

As I have had occasion to mention in the past, I think, we play our home fixtures out of the Royal Oak in Tabard Street, just near Borough Station. Now, for those of us who are Claphamites, such as romney and Yours Truly, this is normally a merry 20 minute jaunt up the Northern Line. Except that last night the Northern Line closed down at 22.30 hours for urgent maintenance work.

This left us in a dilemma, romney and I. Skidaddle before closing time, or run the gauntlet of Red Ken's revitalised London Bus Service.

So at 23.30, full of BEER we found ourselves on Borough High Street standing in an underlit bus stop, warily surveying the few odd coves who wandered by muttering dark imprecations at the bus stop and lamp posts. After about 15 minutes the number 35 bus arrived and we poured on it. Now, as anyone knows who takes them regularly, London bus routes were designed by a macrame specialist.

So it was we slid smoothely through Elephant and Castle, Herne Hill, Brixton - at least one of which was on the direct route home - and on home to Clapham Common - which though at the wrong end of the High Street, is at least in civilisation.

So back in the front door at 12.30 am. Splendid.

Brew up a quick cup of horlicks and settle down to watch the taped episode of Stargate SG1.

Remember, folks, video cassettes have a limited life. The picture was lovely. The sound, however, even turned up full, was unfortunately muffled to the point of incomprehensibility, so I have no idea what happened and must now borrow a tape from a previously-primed colleague.

Of course, I inconveniently forgot that I'd turned the volume right up when I gave up trying to watch the tape. So when I turned it off, the sudden adrenaline rush as a zillion decibels erupted from the telly at 12.50am in a darkened house makes it all the more miraculous that I am bright and bushy-tailed after a good night's kip. Luckily I think the rapid yet brief aural onslaught stunned everyone else in the house into submission, so no one has said anything.

Prezzie time. My ebay goodies turned up this morning. Hurrah!

And for once, one of the Polish Brigade (tm) took the delivery so despite my incompetent attempts to get my trousers on at 7.30am in the second adrenaline rush in 10 hours, I have my toys.

Maybe the threat of very loud telly in the early hours has softened them...

I guess I ought to get ready for work, now. Boo.

Yes, it's a rant, people.

I find it difficult to express just how much I detest Microsoft Word.

About seven years ago, some mental giant in what was then the Department of the Environment signed an exclusive use agreement with Microsoft ensuring that insofar as it was compatible with security needs, the Department would use Microsoft products only. The current incarnation of the Department has inherited that ill-considered decision.

Oh for the days of yore when cheerfully we would frolic through the digital uplands that were LOTUS 1-2-3 and WordPerfect. Two applications that did exactly what they said on the box. These days we are shackled to Excel and Word, two applications that not only fail to live up to their promises, but which appear if not to have minds of their own, certainly they have well-developed autonomic responses and instincts which fly in the face of any task you set out to complete using them.

One of my annual and less cherished tasks in this Hell Hole Office, is the updating and re-authoring of a dry little publication we like to call the Housing Revenue Account Manual. This catchily named little tome runs to twenty-three chapters and could, in extremis, be used to fell a charging Rhinoceros at ten paces.

As reading material goes it is drier than a pharaoh's sock.

Nonetheless, once a year, I work off immense amounts of karma on the bloody thing. This task is quite difficult enough, for the publication is a working document and highly technical to boot. It is complex and has to be accurate otherwise it is worse than useless.

Writing the updates and editing changes in and out is quite tiresome and demands a high degree of concentration.

So you will appreciate that I fail to see the humour inherent in chasing semi-sentient formatting changes around the screen and up and down the page. Who in God's name wrote this application? Why does it make assumptions on my behalf, more often than not incorrectly, on numbering and formatting, and then proceed to argue the point every time I go back into the document to repair the automatically generated carnage?

With a level of frustration bordering on tears, I have just spent two hours wrestling the formatting and numbering into submission. I turned the auto-numbering off.

Word turned it back on.

I turned it off again.

And then in revenge, Word proceeded to assign random numbers and remove indents and margins. When I correct those, it goes off and reformats another part of the document as some kind of cyber-reprisal.

I truly believe that whoever was primarily responsible for Word is related to Mack Sennet.

Yes, it's a rant, people.

I find it difficult to express just how much I detest Microsoft Word.

About seven years ago, some mental giant in what was then the Department of the Environment signed an exclusive use agreement with Microsoft ensuring that insofar as it was compatible with security needs, the Department would use Microsoft products only. The current incarnation of the Department has inherited that ill-considered decision.

Oh for the days of yore when cheerfully we would frolic through the digital uplands that were LOTUS 1-2-3 and WordPerfect. Two applications that did exactly what they said on the box. These days we are shackled to Excel and Word, two applications that not only fail to live up to their promises, but which appear if not to have minds of their own, certainly they have well-developed autonomic responses and instincts which fly in the face of any task you set out to complete using them.

One of my annual and less cherished tasks in this Hell Hole Office, is the updating and re-authoring of a dry little publication we like to call the Housing Revenue Account Manual. This catchily named little tome runs to twenty-three chapters and could, in extremis, be used to fell a charging Rhinoceros at ten paces.

As reading material goes it is drier than a pharaoh's sock.

Nonetheless, once a year, I work off immense amounts of karma on the bloody thing. This task is quite difficult enough, for the publication is a working document and highly technical to boot. It is complex and has to be accurate otherwise it is worse than useless.

Writing the updates and editing changes in and out is quite tiresome and demands a high degree of concentration.

So you will appreciate that I fail to see the humour inherent in chasing semi-sentient formatting changes around the screen and up and down the page. Who in God's name wrote this application? Why does it make assumptions on my behalf, more often than not incorrectly, on numbering and formatting, and then proceed to argue the point every time I go back into the document to repair the automatically generated carnage?

With a level of frustration bordering on tears, I have just spent two hours wrestling the formatting and numbering into submission. I turned the auto-numbering off.

Word turned it back on.

I turned it off again.

And then in revenge, Word proceeded to assign random numbers and remove indents and margins. When I correct those, it goes off and reformats another part of the document as some kind of cyber-reprisal.

I truly believe that whoever was primarily responsible for Word is related to Mack Sennet.

(no subject)

(no subject)