A Gulf in need is a Gulf indeed

If any one of my friends needed a definition of irony, I offer this news story as living demonstration of the concept: Islamic Solidarity Games cancelled over Gulf dispute.

The Islamic Solidarity Games, due to be held in Iran in April, have been called off because of a dispute with Arab countries over what to call the Gulf.

A Gulf in need is a Gulf indeed

If any one of my friends needed a definition of irony, I offer this news story as living demonstration of the concept: Islamic Solidarity Games cancelled over Gulf dispute.

The Islamic Solidarity Games, due to be held in Iran in April, have been called off because of a dispute with Arab countries over what to call the Gulf.

Can I go home yet?

I didn’t sleep so well last night, which means this morning my eyes appear to be red both on the inside and the out. At 2:45 I was still wide awake, too hot and with fidgety feet. When I get fidgety feet it generally means that there’s no point in trying to wait it out and doze off, so I got up and made a cup of tea and pootled around on the internets for a while, interspersing indignant insomniac Tweets on Twitter with opaque and baroque Tweets courtesy of EchoBazaar.

I finally went back to bed at around 3:40 and sometime shortly after 4:00 must have dozed off. My feet were no longer fidgety, but I was still too hot. Of course, by 7:30 when the radio came on, I felt like lead and my head was full of impressions of cake, which I seem to have been dreaming about, though any and all further details left me almost immediately.

I have concluded, from reading my friends’ page, and on the basis of wild speculation only, that there is only so much sleep to go around and it was my turn to maintain part of the mass consciousness whilst others slept. Other people report sleeping like the dead; I am part of the way there. This morning I am walking like the dead.

Can I go home yet?

I didn’t sleep so well last night, which means this morning my eyes appear to be red both on the inside and the out. At 2:45 I was still wide awake, too hot and with fidgety feet. When I get fidgety feet it generally means that there’s no point in trying to wait it out and doze off, so I got up and made a cup of tea and pootled around on the internets for a while, interspersing indignant insomniac Tweets on Twitter with opaque and baroque Tweets courtesy of EchoBazaar.

I finally went back to bed at around 3:40 and sometime shortly after 4:00 must have dozed off. My feet were no longer fidgety, but I was still too hot. Of course, by 7:30 when the radio came on, I felt like lead and my head was full of impressions of cake, which I seem to have been dreaming about, though any and all further details left me almost immediately.

I have concluded, from reading my friends’ page, and on the basis of wild speculation only, that there is only so much sleep to go around and it was my turn to maintain part of the mass consciousness whilst others slept. Other people report sleeping like the dead; I am part of the way there. This morning I am walking like the dead.

Bring the wheelie bags...

One of the things about SpaceFlex (our new office seating system: see LJ entries passim) is that with a few exceptions you never know from one day to the next who will be sitting where. From an operational point of view this can be very inconvenient and/or annoying when you are trying to chase down a colleague for a discussion about something.

From time to time, we get people from other divisions encroaching on our designated space because they are over subscribed against the seven spaces for every ten staff members rule we have these days. Sometimes, we encroach on theirs. Sometimes we all encroach on another division entirely and at other times we all give up and just grumble.

Today is one of the days on which our neighbouring division is in the territorial ascendant and they have annexed a pair of provinces desks on the borders of our empire. This means that there are people we haven’t seen before in the vicinity. One of these chaps is a dead spit for Jon Pertwee, though he is not wearing a velvet smoking jacket, cape or frilly shirt. Regenerated Time Lords end up working in the Civil Service for eternity. No wonder he doesn’t look happy. No wonder they don’t want to regenerate. I wonder where the others work and if they have a club?

Bring the wheelie bags...

One of the things about SpaceFlex (our new office seating system: see LJ entries passim) is that with a few exceptions you never know from one day to the next who will be sitting where. From an operational point of view this can be very inconvenient and/or annoying when you are trying to chase down a colleague for a discussion about something.

From time to time, we get people from other divisions encroaching on our designated space because they are over subscribed against the seven spaces for every ten staff members rule we have these days. Sometimes, we encroach on theirs. Sometimes we all encroach on another division entirely and at other times we all give up and just grumble.

Today is one of the days on which our neighbouring division is in the territorial ascendant and they have annexed a pair of provinces desks on the borders of our empire. This means that there are people we haven’t seen before in the vicinity. One of these chaps is a dead spit for Jon Pertwee, though he is not wearing a velvet smoking jacket, cape or frilly shirt. Regenerated Time Lords end up working in the Civil Service for eternity. No wonder he doesn’t look happy. No wonder they don’t want to regenerate. I wonder where the others work and if they have a club?