D'oh

Just reading blogging chum Manuel's latest entry about his failure to win the lottery, and have realised that I am very, very stupid.

The Boss and myself have been playing the national lottery for a couple of years. Yes yes, I'm aware that it's a tax on people who are bad at maths and so on; I wouldn't bother but it's something mildly entertaining to do in work, ok? And anyway, on the off-chance I became a multi-millionaire, I'd probably rather like it. To hell with these people who say "Ah, but you'd be bored" or "You wouldn't know how to spend it" - they seriously lack imagination.

Anyway, in two years or so, we have not won. Not once. Not anything. Not so much as the bare minimum three numbers that nets you a tenner. And now my mind turns to this, and I think : this is, at this stage, in defiance of the law of averages. Every week, we play. And never have we won anything. Most people will win the bare-minimum-keep-you-playing-tenner one time in ten tries, maybe. A couple of hundred goes, and nothing.

Each Monday, when we remember, we check the results, which is to say, I look them up online, and shout them across to The Boss, who checks them against the ticket, and invariably announces that we have failed yet again. It is a brief moment of camaraderie in the office, as week after week we continue to be statistic-buggeringly unlucky.

I've only just realised the major logical flaw in this whole operation.

D'oh.

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.

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.

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.

Creative Accounting - You're Doing It Wrong

This opens up with a question that taken at face value could seem quite reasonable - but I know a thing or two at this stage, and will not fall into traps like this so easily.

The Boss : "What's twelve feet in inches?"

Now the answer to that one is a straightforward 'One hundred and forty-four', and I am momentarily tempted to give it, but that would be mental suicide round here so caution is required. If in doubt, repeat the question back at the asker.

Here's me : "Twelve feet in inches?"

The Boss : "Twelve inches. How many inches in 3.12 metres?"

See what I'm saying here? But still, this doesn't seem so bad.

Here's me : "Hang on a second... " (looks up online conversion thingy) "...about ten foot three inches".

The Boss : "That can't be right".

Ah.

Here's me : "I'm pretty sure it is."

The Boss : "That's not what I'm getting."

Here's me : "Alright, ten foot two-and-eight-tenth-inches?"

The Boss : "No. Three-point-twelve. Three metres is nine-feet-ten-inches, plus point-twelve is ten feet ten inches."

Blank.

Blank.

Blank.

OK.

Here's me : "No, point-twelve metres is... " (consults online doofer again) "... about four and a half inches".

The Boss : "No, it's a foot."

I am becoming petulant now.

Here's me : "It's NOT. Twelve inches is a foot. How could twelve centimetres also be a foot?"

The Boss : "It's not twelve centimetres, it's point-twelve metres."

Here's me : "Yes! Yes! So! Now! Three metres is nine-feet-ten. Plus point-one-two metres is another four and a half inches."

The Boss : "It's not point-one-two, it's point twelve."

I'm kind of laughing a bit now despite it all, but this enrages her and forces her to drive her point home.

The Boss : "Look. Point-ONE. In between there is point-ONE-TWO. Point TWO..."..

...spoken in the manner of educating a slightly backwards and possibly deaf child, she is actually writing the numbers out on a piece of paper in an angry fashion and punctuating her speech by jabbing the pen aggressively into the page...

"..point TEN, point ELEVEN, POINT TWELVE. And twelve is a foot."

and then stops and glares at me like I'm a total idiot.



That's Carol Vorderman fucked then.