CenoBoss

Follows on from this.

There are days, y'know, when I think she's ok. And days when I think she's ok but just a bit mad, a bit ditzy, maybe a bit crazy even. And then other days, like today, when I'm pretty convinced she's something that took form in one of Stephen King's worst nightmares that was too dark for him to commit to paper and somehow crawled out his head and was then made flesh by Satan himself. She becomes inscrutable and emits this tangible wave of some species of horrific darkness that's hard to describe.

Anyway.

So I'm not big on 'filing', generally, partly because it's godawfully tedious and partly because I don't like our store-room. It's a horrible little messy, cold, dusty chamber down a corridor from the main office, and apart from that, it's usually in a state of utter chaos, so I tend to leave it alone as much as possible. Also, between you and me, I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I suspect that The Boss gets up to some sort of filthy arcane black magic type shit in here; strange occurrences that lead me to believe that this closet might in fact contain a few skeletons. In short, it gives me the creeps.

But today it has an air of sanctity about it, because anything beats sitting in there with that woman right now. She is fully batshit today. I could see the veins in her head from the far side of the room, and was pretty sure that she was clenching and unclenching her fists while talking to me in a manner that I do not like to see in supposedly civilized mammals.

I arrive into the dingy little store with my armload of files, and set about trying to figure out what goes where. In theory, this room should contain a year of files; that's the legal requirement. After that they just get boxed up and removed and taken who-cares-where. The files have an eight digit reference on each, the first four of which indicate month and year and the last four of which indicate job number within a given month. Easy, right?

You know better, by now, I'm sure.

I start looking through the filing cabinets. They look like this, for indeed this is they :

You'll notice she takes the ju-ju to a higher level out here, but never mind. My main problem, my main fucking problem here, is that I can't find a single folder that relates to anything about April 2009. They start at 2006 and run to early 2009.. And the cabinets are full. So where the fuck am I supposed to file these files, which comprise most of our work in the second half of 2009? Where? Bear in mind that to get it wrong is A PAINFUL DEATH, and that seemingly, there is no way to get it right.

Ah, shite. I'm going to have to go back out there and ask her. I can actually feel my testicles shrivelling up just thinking about this, but I have no choice.

Nervously, I return and look around the door. She's still sitting there, glaring like a boxer before a fight, bashing the keyboard like a lunatic.

Here's me : "Uh, ahem. I'm... trying to file these files, as requested. But I can't seem to find where 2009 should go?..."

The Boss : "IN WITH THE REST OF 2009!"

Oh my God I think her eyeballs are actually bulging. Really bulging. She's going to sprout hair from her forehead any minute now.

Here's me : "Well, I can't seem to find the second half of 2009... I can find 2006 through to then, but there is not a single folder labelled later than about April 2009, you see..."

I say this like I'm delivering news of a terminal illness or something. Or maybe like telling a really big, angry man with a gun that I've just got his daughter pregnant.

The Boss stops mashing the keyboard and looks at me with utter contempt and coldly states -

"They do not corrugate."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss barks at me : "The folders do not corrugate to the files in them. You'll just have to look through to find them."

Again, today is no today to pick a fight, I can sense. So I quietly return to the store.

Now on most occasions, I'd be the one going fucking mental right now, but today, actually, this is ok. OK, so there are three filing cabinets full of mis-labelled files. OK, I am going to have to totally deconstruct and re-construct 12 drawers of files, and re-label them, and it is going to be very boring, very tedious, but most importantly - it is going to take me several hours. Alone.

So I set to work. There's a certain joy to be had in this, once it starts to come together; out of chaos, slowly, emerges order, and in this I find satisfaction, as I sit alone in here with a good dose of heavy music blasting through my earphones, writing wee white slips of card with JAN 09 and similar and putting everything in good, proper order. I imagine this sort of pleasure wears thin pretty quickly if this is what you do every day, but for now, it's a sweet mercy; it's relaxing. Not so bad, eh? She can sit in there, banging the hell out of the keys, with nowhere to direct her anger, because she's actually sent me in here, ha ha! This is all fine, this has played right into my furry wee hands and oh mother of fucking jesus she's now standing right behind me. 

I have to tell you it really did scare the shit out of me.






I remove the earphones and get to my feet.

The Boss, blocking the doorway : "Did you do his insurance?"

Here's me : "Whose insurance?"

The Boss : "Ronan Keating's."

I swear on my left fucking nut : I am not making this up.

I just stare.

The Boss says the man whose name has never been Ronan Keating's actual correct name after a very long pause.

Here's me, staring back, because this woman is neither just stupid nor crazy, she is plainly both, with a smattering of pure refined evil : "Well, no. Not from in here. There is neither phone nor computer in here. In here where I have been. As you can see. As you know. So obviously. No."

The Boss, her explosive anger all the more nerve-jangling because I'm now trapped in a tiny room with her blocking the doorway : "GET IT DONE YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE THINGS LYING DO HIS INSURANCE NOW AND STOP PLAYING ABOUT IN HERE!"




To be, sadly, continued, again.

The Boss is Coming - Look Busy

I knew something was wrong quite early on today. I have a nose for these things, at this stage I think I'd have met with tragedy by now if I didn't.


There was, shall we say, an Atmosphere.


It's hard to say just why, subtle little things, but one of the main giveaways is the way The Boss types when She has a Problem. She pounds away at the keyboard will all of the aggression and total lack of any kind of grace of a very bad drunken teenage death-metal drummer. Who has maybe just been dumped by his girlfriend or something. Anyway, I detected this vibe, and not feeling really up to this today, was trying to just keep my head down and lay low. 


But no, despite not wanting trouble, trouble plainly wanted me.

The Boss : "Did you send those bills to Caroline today?"

Here's me : "What, more today?"

The Boss : "SHE ASKED YOU TO SEND THEM THIS MORNING!"

Here's me : "Uh, no, she asked me yesterday morning, and I did send them at that stage. Uh, you were copied in..."

The Boss : "SHE ASKED TODAY!"

Here's me : "I didn't get asked for any more today, honestly."

The Boss : "NO."

Boss Says No, then. I do intend to tell her right before I leave here that it's not as useful a multi-purpose word as "awayandfuckyourselfyoubatshitcrazyoldbastard". 


I wait.

The Boss, barely scaling down from the summit of Mt. Angry : "The ones she asked for yesterday!"

Here's me : "You said... nevermind."

About a year ago, I'd probably have argued this. Then I'd probably have asked her what the hell her problem was and asked her kindly that whatever the fuck it was not to take it out on me. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Such is the WAY OF PAIN.

Here's me : "I sent them yesterday?"

The Boss is obviously wrestling with some sort of blood clot in the brain. I try to look too intensely busy to be spoken to. It is very nearly the truth. It does not, however, work.

The Boss : "AND HAVE YOU PUT AWAY THOSE FILES YET!"

Here's me, looking at the files which she is indicating, which are sitting on the desk between us, totally unable to help myself : "Those files? Yeah."

The Boss : "DON'T BE SMARK WITH IT!"

Plainly the woman is actually about to have a meltdown, and also the prospect of spending a while in the store-room out back right now seems, for once, rather attractive, so I seize up the files and my iPod and head on out to the store-room, fully intending to try to make this last the rest of the day if I can.






To be continued.

Pencil Pusher

Note : Our 'accounts system' consists of a big hardback A4 book, in which we write down each job, the amount we charged out, and details of the invoices received against it. Being that it's not the 1970's anymore this bothers me a bit but I've long since given up caring about such things.

The Boss has been out somewhere at lunchtime and has returned to the office with an air of a person who has things on their mind. This, naturally, scares the shit out of me.

The Boss : "We need to keep better track of our accounts."

Here's me : "I... totally agree."

The Boss : "We need something that can give us what our current profit is likely to be."

Here's me, thinking yes, we're moving forward here : "I totally agree!"

The Boss : "And so we know what charges we're likely to expect against a job. What do you think?"

Here's me, actually quite excited about the prospect of finally dragging this operation kicking and screaming into the 1980's : "Definitely! Yeah, I don't know if it warrants something as comprehensive as Sage but there's probably similar but simpler programs out there, so let me take a look and see what..."

The Boss, coldly, with a deadly air of finality : "No."

Here's me, hitting the wall : "Wha?"

The Boss : "I don't want nothing fancy."

Oh Christ, I've been blind-sided here. Oh fuck. IT'S A TRAP.

Here's me, fucking terrified : "You haven't been in Excel have you?"

The Boss : "No. Because I don't want nothing fancy."

Here's me : "So, ah, uh, what are you thinking of?"

The Boss makes her way over to me and sets some small items on my desk. I stare at them, then at The Boss, then back at the items, trying to keep my expression completely neutral.

The Boss : "So when you put a job in the book, I want you to write in, in pencil, what charges you think will come in. Then when the real invoice comes in, rub it out, and fill it in with a pen."

Here's me : "Ha ha! Very good! Ha!"

The Boss is staring at me.


I can do nothing but stare back.

The Boss : "Understand?"

Here's me, now staring with naked horror at the 'new accounts system' : "Is this a fucking eyeliner pencil? Is this stump of a thing I am looking at on my desk here a fucking eyeliner pencil?"

The Boss : "NO! I went out and got those special."

Here's me : "Did it come, like that, already drawn on?"

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

Here's me : "Could you have got a proper grown-up sized pencil?"

The Boss : "But there's lots of them."

It's true. There are. She reveals a handful of two inch long pencil stubs.

Here's me, with some nameless suspicion in the back of mind : "Where did you get these?"

The Boss : "It doesn't matter."

It does though, and in the back of my mind I think I'm starting to realise something important, some key familiarity here -

Here's me : "Did you steal these fucking pencils from fucking Argos?!"

The look on her face confirms that I am correct. Fuck.Ing.Hell.

I Wouldn't

picture is not entirely unrelated

The Boss : "Stella... Wang."

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

The Boss : "She says machine fourteen is..."

Here's me, I'm losing it today : "Wait. Wait now. Who the fuck is Stella Wang? Wang? Is that what you're saying, Wang? Wink, wing, when, what, wang? What?"

The Boss : "Yes. I just got an e-mail from her. It says machine is fourteen, blah blah blah is it possible to pick up from Armagh?"

Clarification : I am not putting the 'blah blah blah' in just for jollies. The Boss actually said 'blah blah blah'. The Boss has recently taken to just filling in parts of her own sentences with 'blah blah blah' instead of actual words. I mean, fuck. Fuck. What the fuck. Fuck me. Help. Send help. I take it all back. Send help now.

Here's me : "Fuck."

The Boss : "Theres a link, do i click on it?"

Here's me : "Fuck. Fuck. What?"

The Boss : "CGI Ebay?"

Here's me : "What?"

The Boss : "What happens if its something thats going to kick into this? Kick us into this? Should I click it?"

Fuck.

Continuity Error

(Yes, yes, I know what I said. But I'll go mad alone in here, mad I tell you)

The Boss : "Was last year after Christmas or before it?"

Wha?

Lawnmower Boss

Right, here's the deal. We have one of those photocopier/printer/scanner/fax machine jobs that plugs into a network point in here. Because the whole building is on a shared network of some kind, occasionally something happens that leads to, for reasons I don't really understand, the scanner function not being able to see the network. It appears to happen just randomly sometimes and I have neither any clue as to why nor any inclination to try and figure it out. I'm pretty sure no-one is actively trying to hack the photocopier, at least.

So anyway I went for a smoke, and upon my return am greeted with hostility and accusation, thusly :

The Boss : "Are you turning the photocopier off whenever you go out?"

Here's me : "What?"

The Boss : "Are you messing about?"

Here's me : (sigh) "What are you talking about? What? Just what can it possibly be?"

The Boss : "Every time you go out the scanner stops working."

Here's me, slowly, deliberately. I'm chewing this idea over in my mind : "Every time I go out, the scanner stops working. You think that the scanner stopping working is somehow linked to me leaving the room. That is what you're saying to me, right?"

The Boss, verging on manic : "Are you doing something to it!?"

Here's me, steadily ascending in volume, steadily losing my grip : "Yes! Yes I am! I have this... little... fucking... fucking remote control button, in my pocket, and every time I go for a cigarette I push it so the scanner stops working! Ha! HA HA!"

The Boss : "Well if it's not you what is it?"

Here's me : "Well fuck me, you've got me there. You're like Sherlock Bloody Holmes, ruling out the impossible first. Brilliant."

The Boss, possibly realising that this is epic lunacy, retreats somewhat : "Well have you any idea what the problem might be?"

Here's me : "I think... and it's just a theory... that someone in the conference room is using a machine for whatever, and whenever it gets turned on, for some reason it either hogs that network point, or it's an IP address thing, and somehow boots our scanner off the network, so it can't see our shared drive anymore when we try to scan. But I don't know for sure, ok? It's just a thought."

The Boss sits down at her desk and telephones reception, and more or less screams "Koala says your conference machine is disappearing our scanner!"

I am holding my head in both hands, trying not to hyperventilate.

The Boss replaces the telephone handset and turns to me once more.

"They want us to send theme a description of the problem by e-mail so they can forward it to the IT guy."

Here's me : "No sweat, I'll do that now."

The Boss : "No, I want to do it."

Here's me : "Oh fuckkkkkkk...."

The Boss : "Well?"

Here's me : "Well what?"

The Boss : "What should I say to them?"

Here's me : "Just let me send them the e-mail."

The Boss : "NO."

OH MY FUCKING GOD WHY MUST YOU BE SUCH AN ARSEHOLE.

Here's me : "Riiiiiight. OK. Tell them, uh... that we recently installed a new printer and scanner unit that connects via network point six"

The Boss, typing, speaking aloud : "INSTALLED.PRINT.SCANNER.CONNECTS.TO.SIX.NETWORKS."

Here's me : "Oh, gawd, no, I mean it connects to network point number six. The point in the wall."

The Boss : "CONNECTS.TO.NETWORK.FIREWALL."

Worth mentioning, The Boss writes all her e-mails like this, in block capitals with no pronouns in sight; they pretty much all read like war-time telegrams. I'm serious, fuck Neo, if The Boss had been plugged into The Matrix the machines would have released the humans and slunk off to be subservient but untroubled pocket calculators and iPods instead.

Here's me, pretty much giving up : "And... at various points through the day, randomly, the machine can't see the network. Not the firewall. Forget the firewall. The network."

The Boss : "RANDOM. MACHINE. CAN'T. SEE. FIREWALL. FIREWORKS. um NETWORKS."

.

..

...

Here's me : "Just so, yes."

Glint in my eye.

Here's me, and I'm not joking when I say I deserve a fucking Oscar for how I deliver this : "You should let him know it happens every time I leave the room, too. In case it's anything to do with my phone."

If I can get a hold of the response from the IT guy I'll certainly share it with you.

Hysterics

For some reason these conversations always seem to rise out of the ether whenever I have my head buried in a large pile of work. A more suspicious person would, um, suspect something.

The Boss : "Say he said a yellow Hyster truck. What would we do?"

Here's me : "What are you possibly on about?"

The Boss : "What's your man's name Sean Connery?"

Here's me : "Uhhh...."

The Boss, angrily : "You're obviously not completely au fait* with this."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Derek."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Did Derek Convery call you about a Hyster truck?"

* At some point in recent months The Boss has picked up the phrase "au fait" and is now using it at every possible opportunity, and generally completely out of context - y'know, I'll say 'Would you like a cup of tea?' and The Boss will airily say 'No, I'm too au fait here'. FUXAKE.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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?

ACME Spam Generator

The Boss : "What's an H - I - Five friend request?"

Here's me : "Spam."

The Boss : "What do I do with it?"

Here's me : "Block it."

The Boss : "How?"

Here's me (no way am I getting into this) : "Just delete it."

With me so far?

A short while later:

The Boss : "Who's 'coyote'?"

Here's me : "Coyote?"

The Boss : "Coyote."

Here's me : "Coyote, as in Wil-E-Coyote?"

The Boss : "No, that's key-o-t. This is coy-o-t."

Here's me : "Aghhh... How do you spell this?"

The Boss : "K-U-Y-E-T"

Here's me (sigh) : "Never heard of it. Or them. Or him. Where are you reading this off?"

The Boss : "The H-I-Five Friend Request."

Here's me (sigh) : "It's just spam. Just delete it."

The Boss : "I thought he was a customer of ours."

Here's me (sigh) : "I really don't think he is."

The Boss : "Didn't we have a customer called something like that?"

Here's me (sigh) : "Possibly. I don't know. But it's just spam. Just delete it."

The Boss : "Ah, no, it was Kuwait I was thinking of."

Here's me (facepalm) : "Ah, right. Kuwait. Right. More of a country, than a customer, y'know."

The Boss : "Yeah. Well, we ship there, that's why I thought of it."

Here's me : "Ah. OK. Right. All makes sense now, for sure."

The Boss : "So why are Kuwait sending me H-I-Five Friend Requests?"

Here's me, white knuckled : "It's just spam. It's nothing. Just delete it."

The Boss : "I just think it's a bit suspicious."

Here's me, losing cabin pressure : "Whyyyy?"

The Boss : "Well, we ship to Kuwait don't we?"

I'm Sorry, Did I Break Your Concentration?

Barely have I sat down at the desk this morning.

The Boss : "Don't forget you have to sort out that load to France today."

Here's me : "Done, sorted it yesterday."

The Boss : "And that container for Romania."

Here's me : "Yeah, that's sorted too."

The Boss : "And there's those two trucks going to Rigger."

Here's me even though I know full well what she means : "Rigger?"

The Boss : "Rigga..."

Here's me : "Riga?"

The Boss : "Yeah, don't forget to sort those."

Here's me : "They're already sorted."

The Boss : "And those documents for Francis."

Here's me : "Posted them yesterday."

The Boss : "With the right exchange rate?"

Here's me : "Yes, checked it, 1.64"

The Boss : "I was sure it was 1.63"

Here's me waving a piece of paper : "No, 1.64, look."

The Boss : "But did you remember to take off the fuel surcharge?"

Here's me : "Yes."

The Boss : "And you need to sort out that van in Tilbury."

Here's me : "Sorted it last night."

The Boss, accusingly : "And you were supposed to phone Terry first thing this morning."

Here's me, wearily : "I'll phone him now."

The Boss, angrily : "Why haven't you haven't phoned him already?"

Here's me, resignedly : "Because since I sat down you have been telling me to do an endless list of things that I've already done?"

The Boss : "Well, if I didn't keep prodding you, you'd never do anything."



Pass me a hammer.

The Wheels Have Come Off

The Boss : "What's the width of a car?"

Here's me : "What kind of car?"

The Boss : "Just the body."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "Just the car body."

Here's me : "As opposed to?"

The Boss : "Without the tracks."

Here's me : "A car on tracks?"

The Boss : "Would the car be wider than the tracks?"

Here's me : "A car on tracks?"

The Boss : "It doesn't sit flush to the tracks though."

Here's me : "A... car... on... tracks?"

The Boss : "Do you think it's going to be wider than the tracks with the tracks off?"

Here's me : "Wha?"



I'll let you know how this one ends up, if I ever find out.

Conversational Juggernaut

The Boss : "Have you sent that arrival notice to Mark?"

Here's me : "Yeah, I did it yesterday."

The Boss : "Because he'll need that to get release at Halifax."

Here's me : "Yeah, I did it yesterday?"

The Boss : "If he doesn't get it in time they'll charge him storage."

Here's me : "Aghhh...."

The Boss : "So you need to do that."

Here's me : "-"

The Boss : "Are you going to send it then?"

What's the fucking point, honestly?

You Might Ask Yourself

It's days like this, folks, when I have to ask myself serious questions.

The Boss is loaded with the flu, genuinely loaded, and appears to be determined to spread as much suffering around as possible. I've been here but 17 minutes today and already I want to quit. I'm just sitting here having mindless instructions barked at me by someone who refuses to so much as cover their mouth when coughing or wait till they've stopped chewing before spewing out inanities, today served in a special coating of germs and food particles.

It's been turning my mind for some time, as you may know, and now it's turning my stomach too.

I find myself wondering if this is worth it, or how much more of it I can take.

On a lighter note I see my fledgling blog has acquired now seven followers. Hello, welcome, and thank you. Feel free to comment folks, to pass remarks at will or to ask questions if you so desire.

love,
Koala.

A Brief Round-Up

With the return of She Who Cannot Be Named, there is a veritable overload of wanton stupidity in progress here today, too much tragedy and pain for me to go into detail so I shall instead provide you with a brief summary of the highlights so far. All hot off the press -



She's Taking On Water

The Boss : "Have you shipped anything out with Elaine?"

Here's me : "Um, Elaine? The lady in reception?"

The Boss : "With Wallenius?"

(this refers to Wallenius Wilhelmsen, a true and existing shipping line, with whom we ship goods - not to be confused with any lady called Elaine, whom it is hard to imagine under any circumstances to be a suitable vessel for the movement of deep sea cargoes)

Take That To The Bank

The Boss : "I spent so much money and I don't know where it went. I only brought back twelve hundred euros"

Here's me : "Twelve hundred fucking euros!?? How much money did you take with you?!?"

The Boss : "Two hundred."

Here's me who can't be arsed with this shite today : "Aye whatever"


Installation Corrupt

The Boss, starting a conversation with me while staring fixedly at the screen and dialling out on the phone at the same time : "What's un-install install?"

Here's me : "What?"

(presumably the call has just been answered)

The Boss, into the phone : "Google Chrome?"

(presumably the person on the other end of the line has just said "Wha?")

The Boss : "Wrong number" (hangs up phone)

(now looking at me) : "Is Ryan there?"

It Takes A Big Person To Admit, etc.

Here's me : "You have two files open for James Wightman. He called earlier in the week because he's received the same customs entry for both files. I looked in the files and I see you have filed a copy of the same customs entry with each one. Where is the correct one for the second file?"

The Boss : "No, they're in the right files."

Here's me : "They're not. I looked at them both, both the same reference, both 52-V."

The Boss, motioning me over : "Look, they're both in the right files"

Here's me : "You've just taken them out and moved them round."

The Boss : "I didn't, they were always in the right files."

Here's me, amused : "I just watched you do it. Look, it's got holes in the top corner where you tore it off from the staples, look."

The Boss : "No I didn't."

Here's me : "Aye whatever."


If He's Having One, I Want One Too

The Boss : "Your driver in Tilbury's just off the phone. They won't give him a tablet."

Here's me : "Er... a tablet?"

The Boss : "For waiting."

Here's me : "Whhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?"

The Boss : "They won't give him a ticket for the weighbridge."


Quit Bugging Me

The Boss, while on the phone : "Would you ring reception and ask if them if they're trying to cut in on my phone?"

Here's me : "Eh, wha?"

The Boss : "It sounds like someone's tapping my phone, would you ask reception if it's them?"

Here's me : "Are you entirely serious?"

The Boss : "Yes, do it."

(I actually did it too, just for the laugh like)

Classic Rock-aproprism

The Boss : "Have you lifted anything out of Iron Maiden?"

(This one caused me to erupt into laughter and in fairness The Boss did too once she realised what she'd said, she had intended to say 'Iron Planet' which is a U.S. based customer of ours. Classic though)

Who? What? Where? When? Why?

The Boss : "If Jonathan Parker rings up we haven't taken out Mark Stewart."

(I suspect there are two wholly seperate notions in here that would demand two wholly seperate sentences, but if you think I'm diving in to find out what it all means then you can frankly go and fuck)


It's On The Tip Of My Tongue

(In the midst of a discussion about why a particular customer is no longer using us in favour of a more expensive carrier)

Here's me : "Well, it's fairly obvious isn't it - he's taking backhanders."

The Boss : "You can't ignition that."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "That's just instigation."

Here's me : "Wha?"

The Boss : "It's an imm...bi...fi...cation"

Here's me : "Wha the hell do you mean?"

The Boss : "I mean you can't know that, you're just guessing"

Oh the irony.

No Idea

The Boss : "Purfleet would be easier to get to than Dublin wouldn't it?"

Here's me : "Welll..... from where?"

The Boss : "From Purfleet."

An intake of breath so sharp I almost hurt myself.

Here's me : "Well, yeah, Purfleet to Purfleet is definitely easier than Purfleet to Dublin."

The Boss : "No, Purfleet to Dublin. No, Hull. Dublin to Hull. That would be easier than Dublin wouldn't it?"


Just keep breathing, young Koala, no matter how badly you want to stop.

Bank Account Numba And Sort Code Pleeze

The Boss is frowning heavily at the screen. I am detecting this, of course, for by now I am surely well tuned in to the vibration that tells me gross stupidity is about to erupt.

"Would you..."

Oh Gods let it be something painless.

"Would you have..."

Come on come on come on come on gedditoverwith.

"Would you have any emails that I don't have?"

There is a silence for several seconds while I consider what this might mean, and in a fit of mental gymnastics that would impress Gary Kasparov, I work through a whole range of possible outcomes for various answers I might give.

Non-committal is the way forward.

Here's me : "Eh... what do you mean?"

"Would you have got any emails that I haven't got?"

Here's me : "Well... yes..? Any in particular?"

"We've received £15 paid into the bank by Mr. Motunbo".

Carefully blank expression.

Here's me : "Yes? Motunbo, yes. James. Nice fella. What about it?"

"Do you know what it's for?"

Here's me : "No?"

"It's a bit suspicious"

Here's me : "Ahhhhh.... why?"

I am fully aware, believe me, of the critical error I have just committed. I am the cat that curiosity killed, skinned and ate.

"I don't remember him owing us anything."

Here's me : "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... why not ask Accounts for a statement?"

"I don't want to go down that road."

Such statements are frighteningly common; a seemingly quick, simple effective solution is dismissed with a thought-terminating-cliché. She continues :

"Can he do anything to us with that?"

I feel my eyes close, involuntarily, and my hand begins to massage my left temple.
Caution, now, caution young Koala. You may be about to drill right through into a seam of purest idiocy. Be ready.

Here's me : "Anything... such as...?"

"Just can he do anything with it."

Here's me : "Again... anything like what?"

"Can he find out about us? Our address or anything?"

Let me recap. This may be unclear and confusing; if so, you're reading it correctly.
A customer - yes, he is a customer - has deposited money into our bank account. For many businesses this is not only normal but is indeed sort of 'The Point' of business happening. My nerves are fraying in anticipation of where this all leads.

Here's me : "Welllll.... he probably knows our address. Given that we're a publicly listed company. And it's on our invoices to him. And he's actually been in the building here. Given all of this, lodging money into our bank account seems a bit of a strange way to go to find out our address."

"I just thought it was suspicious, that's all. I don't like it. "

Here's me : "Wellll... why not ask accounts for a statement, that'll probably clear it right up" (speaking just a little too brightly, I feel, bright and yes indeed possible brittle)

"I don't want to go down that road."


She's still frowning at the screen, even now.