Killing Time

The Boss : "What's the time in Australia?"

Here's me : "What part of Australia?"

The Boss : "Doesn't matter what part, what time is it?"

Here's me : "Depends on which part, doesn't it?

The Boss, looking at me like I'm stupid : "Of course it doesn't."

Here's me : "Er, it surely does. I think there are probably three different time zones in Australia. At least two, anyway. I'd need to check. It's a big country y'know."

The Boss : "How can it be different times in the same country?"

I have no idea how to answer that, except possibly by thumping her face repeatedly into the globe, so instead I change tack -

Here's me : "I just googled it. There are three different time zones in Australia. Which port are you looking for?"

The Boss : "Perth... no, Fremantle."

Here's me : "Ten hours ah..."

The Boss : "No, Brisbane. No wait, Darwin."

Why must it always be like this? Why?

Here's me : "Nine and half hours ahead."

The Boss : "It can't be."

Here's me : "I'm just reading it off the screen like."

The Boss : "That's stupid. How can anywhere be a half hour difference?"

Here's me, dying : "I don't know. It just is. It says so here, look."

The Boss rises like a wrathful harpy from her desk and seizes up the mammoth volume of an atlas that is her unwieldy, slow and out of date preference over the "fancyness" of Google Maps, and verily slams the immense fucking thing down on my desk. She opens it at the page displaying the world map and assumes the air of a school-teacher, possibly in a special kind of school.

"ONE hour" she declaims, and jabs a finger onto the 30' east line of longitude.

"TWO hours" at 60'.

"THREE hours" at 90' - hell of a shock for China there.

I'm sort of enjoying this now. It's kind of reminding me of Sesame Street, if the Count was a lunatic crack addict.

At FOUR hours she falters slightly as she realises that this is not really going to work.

"No, wait. It's two hours each line."

This is truly fascinating to watch. It's a bizarre form of conversational Ouroboros. I am captivated by the spectacle.

"TWO hours" at 30' east.

"FOUR hours" at 60' east - still with the finger jabbing.

"SIX hours" at 90' east - as painful as I usually find it to be spoken to like this, I am going to let this one play out uninterrupted.

"EIGHT hours" jab

"TEN hours" jab

"TWELVE hours" jab.

I watch her triumphant moment as she manages to make this arcane science seem feasible to herself. I can almost hear the blood rushing to her head.

Here's me, looking earnestly at the map, eager to absorb my lesson : "So... uh... Greenwich, say, is... about two hours behind GMT?"

The Boss, now satisfied in victory, with the almost kindly air of one treating a fool and a condescending shake of the head : "It doesn't work that way."

Some of the finest victories are achieved by simply refusing to fight, and by their very nature, they must go unsung.

Are You 4-Real?

The Boss : "How do you spell 'twelfth'?"

Here's me : "T-W-E-L-F-T-H"

The Boss : "No, when you're writing it down."

Here's me :"Ehwha? Same way, I'm pretty sure?"

The Boss : "No, I mean when you're writing it down just a number 12 with a t-h after it."

Here's me : "I think you may already know."

The Boss : "Yes but is there an 'F' in it?"

Instant Anger - Just Add Boss

First conversation of the morning.

The Boss, sitting on the far side of the room, holds up a piece of paper, blank side towards me.

The Boss : "What's this?"

Here's me : "I don't know."

The Boss : "Well where did it come from?"

Here's me : "I don't know."

The Boss : "Well it was on your desk."

Here's me : "Well what is it?"

The Boss : "That's what I'm asking you."

Here's me : "Well I mean could you let me see it?"

The Boss : "Lose the attitude."

I will crack today, I am almost certain.

The Mind Boggles

The Boss : "Who's Sam Smith?"

Here's me : "Um, he was a footballer. And it's a beer. I doubt either of those are the one you're asking about. What's it in connection with?"

The Boss : "Dunno.. it's a strange e-mail. Who's Elton John?"

.... words fail.

The Boss - Defined

It occurs me that it might help you picture all of these goings on if you had a clearer mental image of The Boss. The below comes to mind as a very close comparison, on a number of levels. Please bear this in mind when reading all postings.

Pleak Spinglish Ease

The Boss : "Did you get an enquiry from Cabindo?"

Here's me : "Never heard of him."

The Boss : "No, to Cabindo."

Here's me : "Never heard of it."

The Boss : "From Triton Rack."

Here's me : "Never heard of them."

The Boss : "In Angola."

Here's me : "Still never heard of them."

The Boss : "Passage?"

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Tritter.. Iron?"

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Michelin."

Here's me : "Tyres?"

The Boss : "Tri-rack?"

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Trinity... "

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "A man in Spain."

Here's me : "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"

The Boss : "I got an email, just wondering if you got it too. No need to be nasty."

I went and looked at the e-mail in question and it's an enquiry from a man called Miguel who works for a company called "Trituración y Clasificación Móvil", asking about shipping to Navarra in Spain. I mean WHAT THE FUCK IS THE FUCKING PROBLEM HERE.

The Madness of King Boss, pt III

Follow up to this.

I had to look for something on The Boss's computer, and saw a curious thing in the Recent Documents list.

I would remind you, in case it's not clear (it's no longer clear to me, I confess) that we are allegedly a shipping company, there are only two of us in here, and The Boss is allegedly the boss. I'd love to know just what the fuck/why the fuck, and so on. If she's just pissing about while I do all the work, that's one thing, but given the history detailed upon these pages, I can't help but suspect darker motives.

My favourite parts are the indication of items of furniture such as chairs; "table with chairs round" is a lovely piece of English; almost sadly, the spelling of "electric meter" has been corrected; but the pièce de résistance is surely the very helpful indication of "Outside". Superb stuff.

This May Well Represent The Last Straw

The Boss has been absent from the office for two weeks now, and I have been very busy, although in a very productive, on-top-of-it, getting-shit-done kind of a way. Mostly, anyway. But upon her return everything has been gone through with the fine toothed comb, so to speak, and this is actually slightly more painful and intrusive than a very bad experience in Customs, or maybe even jail.

To set the scene, The Boss is staring at her screen, which is some distance from me and at the wrong angle for me to be able to see anyway, and is randomly interrogating me based upon two weeks of e-mails. I've had to condense this considerably, because it basically lasted for eight hours. Dark days indeed, this office is steadily turning into some Village of the Damned type scene. I'm expecting a thick mist to come rolling under the door any moment now.

The Boss : "Did you do this one?"

Here's me : "What one?"

The Boss : "Denmark."

Here's me : "I did a lot of Denmark. Which Denmark?"

The Boss : "Have you done all of these then?"

Here's me : "Well I think so, but I mean, can you be specific?"

The Boss : "Did you do all the Denmark or not?"

Here's me : "Er... " oh fuck it "Yes."

The Boss : "Did you do this one?"

Here's me : "What one?"

The Boss : "Mombasa."

Here's me : "Yes.

The Boss : "Finland?"

Here's me : "What Finland?"

The Boss : "Norway."

Here's me : "I did a Norway."

The Boss : "But Finland?"

Here's me : "What Finland?"

The Boss : "Any Finland."

Here's me : "I don't think so."

The Boss : "So you didn't do it?"

Here's me : "What? Wait. I didn't think there was a Finland job..?"

The Boss : "So you didn't do Finland. You can't just leave things lying, you know."

Here's me : "Was there a Finland job?"

The Boss : "Did you do all these to Galveston."

Here's me : "Yes. What Finland?"

The Boss : "Never mind. Did you do those invoices for Frances?"

Here's me : "Yes. What Finland job was that, again?"

The Boss : "All of them?"

Here's me : "Yes."

The Boss : "Did you do this one?"

Here's me : "WHAT one?"

The Boss : "Do you have a problem with me asking you questions?"

Here's me : "No. Seriously. I just can't answer them if I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

The Boss : "Did you do Galveston?"

Here's me, staring at the ceiling and speaking in a kind of a whimper : "You asked me that about thirty seconds ago."

The Boss, dangerously : "Do you think I'm giving you a hard time?"

Here's me, carefully : "No. I am... " think goddamit think "..just, sometimes, not sure of exactly what it is that you're asking."

The Boss : "That's because you never listen. You need to learn. Did you do Norway?"

Here's me : "Yes. You've already asked me that."

The Boss : "No I didn't. I asked you about Finland."

Here's me : "No you oh what's the point right ok."

The Boss : "So you didn't do Norway?"

Here's me : "No, I did."

The Boss : "You said you didn't do it."

Here's me : "No, I said I didn't do Finland."

The Boss, angry, triumphant, insane : "Ah, so you didn't do Finland! You just ignored the Finland job!"

Here's me, talking to a fixed point in the middle distance : "Truthfully, no, I did not do the Finland job, but there was no Finland job so I think it's fairly excusable."

The Boss, dripping some sort of odious malice : "Well Iiiiii see a Finland."

I bound over quickly and brightly.

Here's me : "Really my goodness I must have made a terrible mistake where is the Finland I have failed to do please??"

The Boss, actually, for real - this'll blow your fucking minds, kids - puts her hand flat over the screen, attempting to mask the email which is open upon it, and glares at me with raw, naked contempt.

Here's me, smiling like The Joker : "Which Finland please?"

The Boss : "Never mind."

Here's me, all eyeballs and teeth : "I need to learn."

The Boss, sullenly and aggressively, drops her hand from the screen.

Here's me, in the flat dead tones of the new murderer : "That", I state, indicating the screen with a pointing finger that barely shows a tremble despite the hell that is flowing through my veins, "is Norway."

The Boss folds her arms and regards me with her 'orrible little beady eyes for a moment, and I can almost see the wheels of whatever diabolical instrument drives her mind turning, then slowly intones, with an air of utter disgust :

"Did you do anything while I was away?"

Denied

In order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to obtain.

MARK TWAIN

As those of you who have been following this will be aware, quite often it is from the tiniest, most innocuous and seemingly innocent beginnings that the greatest madness erupts in these chambers.

And so:

Here's me : "Do we have any more paperclips? I'm running out."

The Boss, in a manner that strongly suggests she's spoiling for a rumble : "No."

Here's me : "Well could you order some with the next stationery order?"

The Boss : "No".

Here's me : [sigh] "May I ask why?"

The Boss : "You don't need paperclips."

Here's me : [sigh] "I really do. I use a lot of them. And I'm running out. Please could I just have some paperclips?"

The Boss : "What are you using them for?"

Here's me getting steadily more uneasy : "To... clip... pieces of paper together... in files?"

The Boss, bizarrely very angry about this : "You should use staples."

Here's me, sucked in : "Well you see I use paperclips while the file is still coming together, then once it's finished, I remove the paperclip, and staple them."

The Boss, with an ugly air of malicious triumph : "You should have paperclips then."

Bollocks. She might have me here.

Here's me, it's a fair cop : "OK. I may have lost some during this process. Can I please just have some paperclips?"

The Boss : "No. I don't want you using paperclips any more. Use staples from now on."

Here's me, utterly caught in the web : "But.. while the file is coming together, I have to... perhaps insert other pages, and take pages out to fax them and so on... and if I leave them loose they'll get all muddled."

I'm gonna cry. This is so unfair. It's just not right. I just want some fucking paperclips. Please just give me some paperclips you evil maniac.

The Boss, now inordinately pleased with herself : "You can't leave them loose. You'll have to staple them, then take the staples out each time."

Here's me : "But... but.. that's a bit... um.. mad?"

The Boss : "Don't be carky with me."

Here's me : "Carky?"

The Boss has said it now and is damn well going to stand by it : "Carky."

Here's me : "Carky? Are you calling me carky?"

The Boss : "Don't be key with me."

Here's me : "Wha???"

It's the little, tiny things in life, the small, insignificant things, that make people insane. I'm just sayin'.

The Madness of King Boss, pt II

Further to this glorious slice of lunacy - in a moment alone in the office, I decided to search around The Boss's chamber for evidence of what she might might have been up to. I found nothing related to this, directly at least, but did however find in the wastepaper basket a number of shredded pieces of paper.

They appear to be the shredded remains of a hastily-drawn floorplan of the office. What reasons this could have been done for, I can only guess at. The Reader will note on figure B, below, the question mark beside "electric metre" [sic], as if perhaps this is in question.

I'm afraid, I don't mind telling you.

Addendum : Continues here.

The Madness of King Boss

The door has affixed to it one of those signs that indicates the procedures that should be taken in the event of a fire, you know the sort. I must admit I've never even really noticed that it was there before, much less read the thing; it's a small building and we're not very high up so in the event of a fire I shall walk calmly outside, light a feg and consider which pub to go to; however, I noticed the sign today.

This is because a short while ago The Boss arose from her desk and made her way towards it, and then for several minutes appeared to be trying to peel it off the back of the door.

I watched from the relative safety and sanity of my desk, with a certain horrified fascination, to see what would unfold next.

The Boss gave up on her peeling off the fire procedures sign, returned to her desk and fetched notepad and pen, and returned to stand in front of the door, scribbling furiously.

I observed this in silence for some moments, before quietly alighting from my desk and making my way furtively to where she stood scribbling in front of the door, looking up occasionally at the fire escape sign. As I approached and looked over her shoulder, I could see that she appeared to be writing down what was stated upon the fire procedures sign. Perhaps she heard me; perhaps it was some deeper, animal instinct; either way, she was startled, and turned quickly around, staring like a demented rabbit caught in headlights and clutching the notepad to herself like a person trying to hide the launch codes.

Here's me : "Well?"

The Boss : "I tried to peel it off but it started to rip."

Here's me : "Yes? And why?"

The Boss : "To scan it."

Here's me, nodding in almost sympathetic fashion, like I know or understand what the hell this total fucking mentalist is up to now : "Yes. And... why?"

The Boss : "Just because."

Here's me : "Because whyyyyy??"

The Boss : "Just in case."

She has by now returned her gaze to the notepad, filled with her curling script, and is scribbling away furiously once again and refusing to make eye contact with me.

Ah, I know a thing or two at this stage, you know - enough to know I'm getting nowhere, so I just turn round and pretend this isn't happening.

There are a number of thoughts going through my head; part of me is thinking 'Holy shit, like, I'm working my bloody balls off all day while The Boss swans about copying the text from the fire procedures sign onto a notepad.'

But a deeper and perhaps much wiser part of me thinks that is mere small beer compared the greater issue; to wit, that events of this nature are becoming more obscure and bizarre and most worryingly of all more frequent, and I wonder, dear Reader, not without a chill running down my furry spine, how all of this ends.

Addendum : The Madness of King Boss continues here.

Internal Server Error

For personal-type reasons, The Boss might be working from home for a while; may I have a "woo" with a side order of "hoo", a smattering of "yeehaw" and a quick "hell yeah!" please?

Anyway. Never runs smooth, so here we go, into the negotiations and logistics :

The Boss : "Would I be able to take that spare computer with me, and work from home?"

Here's me : "Yeah, don't see why not. You have internet in the house, don't you? It should be simple enough."

The Boss : "Yeah, I have BT internet."

Here's me : "Fine then, it should be easy enough."

The Boss : "Will I just plug it in and it'll work straight away?"

Here's me : "Depends.. is your internet wireless?"

The Boss : "Don't know."

Here's me : "Is there a wire from your home computer to the phone line?"

The Boss : "No. There's a hub."

Here's me : "But is the hub connected to the computer?"

The Boss : "I think it's connected to the server."

Here's me : "I'm fairly sure you don't have a server at home. Is there a wire between the hub and the computer, or is it wireless?"

The Boss : "No, I think it's wireless."

Here's me : "Is it a laptop?"

The Boss : "No, it's an old PC."

Here's me : "Right, so there's a wireless card, looks like a wee box maybe with an aerial on it, in the back of your computer?"

The Boss : "No, it's wireless."

Here's me : "No no, I mean just plugged into the computer itself, just a little box in the back?"

The Boss : "No, there's a hub."

Here's me : "No, I mean... I mean, how does your computer physically connect to the telephone line?"

The Boss : "Firefox."

Here's me : "Aagghhh... Look, is there a wee box or card or similar that sticks out of a USB socket on the back of your computer, and isn't connected to anything else, and maybe has an aerial or antenna of some kind on it?"

The Boss : "Do you mean the dongle?"

Here's me :"YES! Yes I do! That's the wireless card! Great!"

The Boss : "But there's a wire on it."

Whu?

Here's me : "A wire on the dongle? What kind of wire on the dongle?"

The Boss : "A wee sticky up one."

Deep breaths.

Here's me : "So yeah, just put the, uh, the dongle into the new PC when you take it home, and it should connect to the net... do you have a password on the router?"

The Boss : "There's a code..."

Here's me : "OK, just put that code into..."

The Boss : "...but I don't have it."

Here's me : "Actually it's probably a very complicated process, this, now that I think about it. I think you'd better phone the IT guy."

Mad Cow Disease

It turns out that a close friend has been advised their recent bout of ill-health was actually swine flu, contracted on a business trip overseas. I happened to mention this in passing to The Boss, but added that it's almost certainly very unlikely that I would have contracted this as the friend's doctor has advised the infectious stage would have passed within 48 hours of symptoms showing.

Thus:

The Boss : "They don't know enough about it yet to know that."

Here's me, not really wanting to engage further with this : "I don't know. That's just what their doctor said."

The Boss : "Sure at the start they said it was nothing but now everyone's dying of it."

Here's me, sucked in : "Er... is not that sort of completely back to front?"

The Boss : "No, sure there's this cruise liner in Scotland and they've quarantined everyone on it, a hundred thousand people or something, and they won't let them off."

Here's me : "A hundred thousand people?"

The Boss : "A hundred. Or a thousand."

Here's me : *sigh* "Anyway, was that not an outbreak of the norovirus, as opposed to 'swine flu'?"

The Boss : "Same thing."

Oh do shut up.

Déjà Vu

This exchange took place only yesterday.

Today, just now :

The Boss : "I don't think the cleaners have been in you know."

Unfuckingbelievable.

No Longer At This Address

The Boss : "Do you have that contact for Turkey?""

Here's me : "What contact for Turkey?"

The Boss : "The one I gave you."

Here's me : "What one you gave me?"

The Boss : "I gave you his e-mail address last year, you were looking for a rate."

Here's me : "Oh aye... I vaguely remember. What was his name again?"

The Boss : "Can't you just get me his e-mail address?"

Here's me : "Er.. no?"

The Boss : "It should come up when you start typing it in."

Here's me : " Do.

you.

know.

his.

name."

The Boss : "Can you not remember?"

Here's me : "NO."

The Boss : "Hassan."

I type this in to the 'To' box.

Here's me : "I have no 'Hassan' coming up."

The Boss : "Atia."

I type this in too.

Here's me : "I have no 'Atia' coming up."

The Boss : "No, Hassan Atia."

Sigh.

Here's me, entirely weary of this life : "I have no Hassan, no Atia, no Hassan Atia."

The Boss : "Do you not keep a record of your addresses?"

Here's me : "Er, yes? In the address book?"

The Boss : "Well where's your address book?"

Here's me wishing I could just disappear : "oh gawd oh gawd oh gawd in the computer where do you keep yours i'm scared to ask?"

The Boss : "I left it at home."

Here's me : "Are you telling me you keep your e-mail addresses in a book? In an actual, physical book?"

The Boss : "Yeah."

Here's me, wide-eyed : "In an actual manual, paper, handwritten book?"

The Boss : "Yeah."

Here's me gripping the edge of my desk with white knuckles like I'm riding the Big Dipper into the Abyss : "Which you write e-mail addresses off the screen into?"

The Boss : "Yeah."

Here's me probably with strands of saliva hanging from my slackening jaw : "Which you take home with you?"

The Boss : "Don't be smart with me. Your fancy one isn't much better if you can't find his e-mail address in it, is it?"

Here's me : "I CAN HARDLY FIND HIS SODDING ADDRESS IF YOU DON'T TELL ME HIS SODDING NAME."

The Boss : "Hiba. His name's Hiba."

Typing.

Found.

Here's me : "Here it is. Hiba. Right. Jesus Christ, like. I mean, fuck. Jesus. Fuck."

The Boss : "I could have found that faster myself."

Clench.

The Boss : "You need to start keeping a better record of your email addresses."

That snapping sound on the edge of your hearing, that is me.

Flat Earth Society

The Boss : "What would the Philippines come under?"

Here's me : "Asia."

The Boss : "For a marine insurance form though?"

Here's me : "South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Not Pakistan? Pakistan is a higher rate."

Here's me : "No, South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Or Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka's a higher rate too. Is Sri Lanka not in Asia?"

Here's me : "Yeah, it's probably higher for war risk, and yes, Sri Lanka is in Asia, but the Philippines are not in Sri Lanka. For insurance purposes the Philippines are classed as South-East Asia."

The Boss : "Would it be India? India's a different rate as well."

Here's me practically in tears : "No, India is about three thousand miles west of the Philippines."

The Boss : "Oh. Would it be West Indies then?"

Fuckin' hell, like. This woman has been working in shipping for TWENTY SEVEN YEARS.

Scarier yet, she's been managing to breathe unassisted for even longer. How?

Well This Just Sucks

As mentioned in the previous post, I've been absent due to illness.

Background here : We are the Dublin office, staffed by just us two, of a larger company based in England. You might wonder why the hell I persist with this penance; largely because the company itself is a good company to work for in many respects.

So anyway during my absence various issues have of course been completely ignored, various problems stockpiled for me to sort out, but The Boss has kindly assisted by taking care of my invoicing; this is a very simple, straightforward task, the nice bit at the end of the work where we get to make some money from it; which in addition to sending invoices to customers also puts through the profit figures for individual operators to head office.

Do you see what has happened here?

Thanks a fucking bunch, like.

I mean really.

Fuck this.

Am I Missing Something?

I've been off sick for a couple of days, so as a result of having to do some work in the interim The Boss is in a very bad mood with me today, and will doubtless be finding excuses to pick on me for anything possible. Oh well. So anyway I just sat down at the desk this morning and the office is a bit stinky; bins haven't been emptied, that sort of thing. This is a 'serviced office', which I'm glad of; apart from the lunacy of working in here, the actual building itself is rather a nice place to work in. Y'know, the bins get emptied every day and apart from the piles of documents on every flat surface the place is generally kept quite clean and such. Anyway :

Here's me : "Were the cleaners off the last few days?"

The Boss : "Why?"

Here's me : "The place is a bit mingy today, y'know."

The Boss, haughtily : "You shouldn't be expecting other people to clean up after you anyway."

Er...

Fail

Well I shot myself in the foot there didn't I.

I don't think I've mentioned this before but The Boss is one of those people who likes (or needs) to sing one or two often misheard lines from a catchy but irritating song, intermittently throughout the day, often staying with the same couplet for weeks on end but never progressing any further in the song.

You know the sort. You get "She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes" a few times in a day, then by the end of the first week it's something like "She'll be Karchi express document diddly-dum", until it fades out to be replaced by something else.

So now, and I know the fault is entirely my own, I'm being treated to intermittent "La Cucara-CHA! La Cucara-CHA! dee-dee-dededede-dee" and already it has started to morph into "La Kookabur-RA! La Kookabur-RA! dee-dee-dededede-dee".

If you see no further updates for a while it almost certainly means that someone has died.

La Cucaracha, La Cucharacha

The Boss : "Spell 'Karachi'"

Here's me : "K-A-R-A-C-H-I"

The Boss : "No, not 'Karachi', 'Karachi'."

Ah, we appear to have reached an impasse.

Here's me : "Whereabouts is it?"

The Boss : "South America."

Big place, y'know.

Here's me : "Give me a clue. I have no idea."

The Boss : "Karate?"

Here's me : "Carate? There's one in Costa Rica but it's not exactly a major destination, I doubt it's that. Any more clues?"

The Boss : "Where's Rio Grand-EE?"

Here's me : "Um... it's a river in Mexico?"

The Boss : "Not Mexico."

Here's me : "Probably lots of South American countries. Hang on..."

(googles it)

Here's me : "Yeah. At a glance, there's about fifty places called Rio Grande in South America. More info, pur-leeze."

The Boss : "Near Rio dee-Ja-Nero in Argentina."

Here's me : "Rio de Janeiro is in Brazil."

The Boss : "Near that."

Here's me : "Where?"

The Boss : "Near Rio Grand-EE. It sounds like Cucaracha."

Here's me : "Cockroach??"

The Boss : "What?

Here's me : "Never mind. Look, what's this all about?"

The Boss : "I was asked for a price to Cucaracha."

Here's me : "Cucaracha is Spanish for 'cockroach'. 'La Cucaracha, La Cucharacha'? You know?"

The Boss : "um... Kookaburra..."

Here's me "Oh sweet Jesus-fisting-Christ, what the hell are we talking about? Phone the customer back and ask them again. Please."

This was duly done. It turns out that Karachi / Karate / Cucharacha / Kookaburra actually referred to 'Zárate' in Argentina. Another half an hour of my life that I'll never get back.

One Seaside Town Is Much Like Another

The Boss : "How would I get a container to Portrush?"

(For the non-local, Portrush is a seaside town on the North Coast of Northern Ireland locally famous for ice-cream, Barry's Amusement Park and weekend raves, or whatever the kids call them these days. It's about 60 miles from here - not exactly a major challenge to a global shipping company)

Here's me : "Um, head north up the M2 and follow the signs for Portrush?"

The Boss : "No, I mean Hong Kong."

(For the aliens amongst you, Hong Kong is a largely self-governing territory of the People's Republic of China, renowned as one of the world's leading financial centres. It's difficult for me to establish the link to Portrush, if you can figure it out, you can have my job)

Here's me :