I am typing this from my hotel room in Japan. I'm here for work. I have meetings all week, some of them with rather significant organisations in Japan that I am hoping to do business with.
I've spent the last several weeks organising this, which probably deserved several blog entries but time did not permit. While I was organising all this, I realised that I would need a mobile number in Japan so that my customers could contact me. I've always had trouble with phones in Japan and have never been able to get my mobile to work here. One of my colleagues assured me that this trouble was all behind me as I now have a 3G phone which will work just fine.
Needless to say, when I arrived in Hong Kong this morning, my phone didn't work. I borrowed my colleague's phone and called Telstra and was told that my mobile did not have international roaming switched on. No matter, I was told, they can switch it on now and it will be working in 5 or 10 minutes. I just needed to switch off the phone and switch it back on again.
For the next hour and a half I periodically switched my phone on and off to no avail. Slightly panicked, I borrowed the phone once more. I called Telstra again and explained my problem. I need to speak to the international roaming department they said. You are the international roaming department I said. No, we just turn it on they said and put me through to the international roaming department. The international roaming department seemed to be a very unhelpful young man who told me that the international roaming would be turned on at 10:45. Why 10:45 I asked? Because it takes 2 hours he said. But the other person said it would only be 5 or 10 minutes and all you have to do is reboot your phone. Dunno why they would say that, he said, it takes 2 hours and you don't have to turn your phone on and off.
At 10:45, as I was boarding the plane to Japan, it still wasn't working. Just to be sure, I rebooted but no good.
Once I got to Tokyo I called Telstra again. I got the usual inane voice menus and messages and told that I need to talk to the international roaming department (thanks for that) before speaking to a woman who told me that she could see what the problem was and now it's fixed. What was the problem I asked. Well it's fixed now she said, it will be working in about 5 or 10 minutes, you just have to reboot your phone.
With very little hope in my heart, I have since been rebooting my phone periodically without any luck. I now think it might be easiest if I just redirect the phone.
Bloody Telstra.
Sunday 5 December 2010
Monday 9 August 2010
Why haven't I posted anything lately
I have been kind of busy of late as I enrolled in another course.
This has the enormous advantage of getting me out of doing housework but the drawback of using up all my blog time for reading.
Anyway, I will endeavour to make one post per week and I am happy to hear your suggestions for topics.
This has the enormous advantage of getting me out of doing housework but the drawback of using up all my blog time for reading.
Anyway, I will endeavour to make one post per week and I am happy to hear your suggestions for topics.
Monday 2 August 2010
Friday 9 July 2010
Advice
I don't listen much to music. It's not that I don't like it, just that it doesn't interest me.
Instead, I listen quite a lot to podcasts. Mainly from ABC radio national, which, by the way, I recommend to you all most highly. I enjoy "Counterpoint", "The Law Report" and "The Religion Report". I also listen occasionally to the Slate Magazine podcast, but that does get on my nerves after a fairly short period. Recently I also discovered some Stephen Fry podcasts that have been the source of some amusement.
Anyway, all this is by way of a preamble, for today chikenz-watchers, I have some advice. The advice was gleaned from a podcast called "The Ark". It's a short programme (about 15 minutes long) about historical religious matters. I haven't listened to it for some time, but for reasons now lost to me, I noted down something from one of their programmes and I rediscovered it only recently. The particular programme that I am referring to was on the subject of some ancient Buddhist texts that had been found.
These texts surfaced in the 1990s and are over 1500 years old. The programme discussed their discovery and some of the research that is presently being undertaken. My advice to you today, is taken directly from one of these texts. It goes like this;
"If one should not find a wise companion, a well-behaved strong fellow, then like the king who has abandoned the realm that he had conquered, one should wander alone like the rhinoceros."
So then, my advice is that to be like the Buddha, one should strap a half a cricket stump to ones nose and paint oneself grey.
Instead, I listen quite a lot to podcasts. Mainly from ABC radio national, which, by the way, I recommend to you all most highly. I enjoy "Counterpoint", "The Law Report" and "The Religion Report". I also listen occasionally to the Slate Magazine podcast, but that does get on my nerves after a fairly short period. Recently I also discovered some Stephen Fry podcasts that have been the source of some amusement.
Anyway, all this is by way of a preamble, for today chikenz-watchers, I have some advice. The advice was gleaned from a podcast called "The Ark". It's a short programme (about 15 minutes long) about historical religious matters. I haven't listened to it for some time, but for reasons now lost to me, I noted down something from one of their programmes and I rediscovered it only recently. The particular programme that I am referring to was on the subject of some ancient Buddhist texts that had been found.
These texts surfaced in the 1990s and are over 1500 years old. The programme discussed their discovery and some of the research that is presently being undertaken. My advice to you today, is taken directly from one of these texts. It goes like this;
"If one should not find a wise companion, a well-behaved strong fellow, then like the king who has abandoned the realm that he had conquered, one should wander alone like the rhinoceros."
So then, my advice is that to be like the Buddha, one should strap a half a cricket stump to ones nose and paint oneself grey.
Monday 28 June 2010
First Anniversary
I have just noticed that the blog turns one year old today!
The blog platform is supplied by google and when I started it, I was asked whether or not I wanted to earn money from the blog. Naturally my answer was a resounding "yes!" and while I was a little annoyed to realise that this would mean the little advertisements you see on the right of the screen would appear, it was tantalising to imagine the great rivers of money that would soon flow my way.
I soon discovered that the magic of google meant that every time someone visited, I would get paid a small fraction of a cent. In the event that someone clicked on one of the advertising links, I would get an even larger fraction of a cent.
In the absence of the expected rivers of cash, I checked my google stats and they tell me that I have, in the year that I have been posting, had over 1600 page views! Sadly, I have had only 13 advertising clicks and I have I have earned a total of $6.62.
I suppose if I could increase my rate of traffic by a few hundred fold or so, I could probably justify to the chikenz the amount of time I spend on it. Or maybe not. In any case, I need a plan to increase the blog traffic. A cunning plan. A plan so cunning that it would be considered exceptionally cunning by the overwhelming proportion of people who gave some thought to the question of how cunning it was.
Chikenz points therefore to anyone that can come up with a suitably cunning plan
...
The blog platform is supplied by google and when I started it, I was asked whether or not I wanted to earn money from the blog. Naturally my answer was a resounding "yes!" and while I was a little annoyed to realise that this would mean the little advertisements you see on the right of the screen would appear, it was tantalising to imagine the great rivers of money that would soon flow my way.
I soon discovered that the magic of google meant that every time someone visited, I would get paid a small fraction of a cent. In the event that someone clicked on one of the advertising links, I would get an even larger fraction of a cent.
In the absence of the expected rivers of cash, I checked my google stats and they tell me that I have, in the year that I have been posting, had over 1600 page views! Sadly, I have had only 13 advertising clicks and I have I have earned a total of $6.62.
I suppose if I could increase my rate of traffic by a few hundred fold or so, I could probably justify to the chikenz the amount of time I spend on it. Or maybe not. In any case, I need a plan to increase the blog traffic. A cunning plan. A plan so cunning that it would be considered exceptionally cunning by the overwhelming proportion of people who gave some thought to the question of how cunning it was.
Chikenz points therefore to anyone that can come up with a suitably cunning plan
...
Whatever gods may be
I am not a religious man.
I would go so far as to say that I am a confirmed atheist. Militant even. But occasionally, spiritually uplifting events cause me to examine my point of view. One of those spiritually uplifting events happened this morning and I want to tell you about it.
I have from time to time been appropriately amused by stories of Jesus appearing on a burnt tortilla or, or a vision of the Blessed Virgin Mary appearing on some grilled cheese. The phenomenon is a well documented one, known as pareidolia. It's basically the human inclination of recognising patterns in random events. The unconquerable soul that is the brain will grasp whatever is available for amusement and, well, amuse itself. It's the same phenomenon that makes us hear the words "Paul is dead" when we play the song backwards. It's the same phenomenon that causes us to believe that the poker machine is about to pay out bigtime because of a certain pattern of small payouts. There's no pattern, it's random.
The willingness to find patterns where there are none is what often makes clouds so amusing. The enjoyment of staring at clouds and finding shapes is so widespread that it has even been featured in a peanuts cartoon. Charlie Brown, Lucy and Schroeder are all staring at the sky and Charlie Brown observes that the clouds often have interesting shapes. "Yes," says Schroeder, "Over to the right, I can see an almost perfect representation of the south-west coast of Peru. What can you see Charlie Brown?"
"Well I was going to say I can see a horsey, but I think I won't bother now." says Charlie Brown.
But once again I have been distracted. I was telling you about the spiritually uplifting experience that I had this morning.
This morning I woke up at about 4am. This was largely because I had gone to bed rather early the night before. My weekend had consisted of two rather heavy bouts of drinking. The first on Friday evening with work colleagues and the second on Saturday afternoon to celebrate the 50th birthday of an old friend. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was rather worse for wear and retired for the evening by about 7:30pm. Shortly afterward I was sleeping blissfully and hence you find me, at 4am, staring at the curtains that cover the doors opposite my bed.
It was at this time that I was reminded of the phenomenon of pareidolia, for after a minute or two of staring at the curtain, my brain managed to conjure a face to stare back at me. It was clearly a female face, although it didn't appear to be the Blessed Virgin Mary (or BVM as she is often called) for it was a rather full-lipped female face with eyes that featured the epicanthal fold characteristic of most people of asian descent. It was remarkably detailed, but I should warn before we go on that this was not the spiritually uplifting experience that I spoke of earlier. I'm getting to that.
My initial reaction was one of a sort of detached, intellectual amusement along with a certain measure of relief that the boredom had been slightly alleviated. I have read about and even experienced the phenomenon many times and I never fail to be amused by the tricks that my own brain can play.
Eventually I became sufficiently bored that I turned on the radio where I found the BBC world news was reporting on a police raid that had been conducted in Belgium. My recent thought of the Blessed Virgin Mary notwithstanding, I was more than a little pleased to learn that the raid had been conducted on the Catholic Church.
The pope, apparently is outraged. I struggle to understand how he can manage this because the Belgian Catholic Church appears to be staffed by the most notorious collection of kiddy-fiddlers yet uncovered. One of the more monstrous of these rock-spiders, one Roger Vangheluwe, has admitted to abusing young boys even after being ordained as a bishop! But apparently the pope, that guardian of moral decency, had managed to get himself worked into such a state that he had one of his flunkies call in the Belgian Ambassador and hand him "a formal protest note."
As thrilling as this news was, it was not the source of the spiritually uplifting experience that I spoke of earlier. That came just a few minutes later.
BBC reports are generally introduced by an announcer giving the name of the reporter and the topic, then at the end of the report, the same BBC announcer will solemnly sign off with the name of the reporter and the location of the report. So we get an introduction that might say "Ingrid Feldman reports on the recent death of parrots in Norway" followed by a signing off that will simply be "Ingrid Feldman in Norway"
In the case of the report on the raid of the bishops, I didn't hear the opening announcement. While that was being made, I was staring at a mysterious face in my curtains. I did hear the closing announcement and it was this that as the source of my spiritually uplifting experience. I don't suppose it can be held out as proof of and gods, but if we posit their existence, then it is proof that whatever gods may be, they certainly have a sense of humour. The sign off was;
"David Willie, Belgium"
Chikenz points today will be obvious if you can spot them.
I would go so far as to say that I am a confirmed atheist. Militant even. But occasionally, spiritually uplifting events cause me to examine my point of view. One of those spiritually uplifting events happened this morning and I want to tell you about it.
I have from time to time been appropriately amused by stories of Jesus appearing on a burnt tortilla or, or a vision of the Blessed Virgin Mary appearing on some grilled cheese. The phenomenon is a well documented one, known as pareidolia. It's basically the human inclination of recognising patterns in random events. The unconquerable soul that is the brain will grasp whatever is available for amusement and, well, amuse itself. It's the same phenomenon that makes us hear the words "Paul is dead" when we play the song backwards. It's the same phenomenon that causes us to believe that the poker machine is about to pay out bigtime because of a certain pattern of small payouts. There's no pattern, it's random.
The willingness to find patterns where there are none is what often makes clouds so amusing. The enjoyment of staring at clouds and finding shapes is so widespread that it has even been featured in a peanuts cartoon. Charlie Brown, Lucy and Schroeder are all staring at the sky and Charlie Brown observes that the clouds often have interesting shapes. "Yes," says Schroeder, "Over to the right, I can see an almost perfect representation of the south-west coast of Peru. What can you see Charlie Brown?"
"Well I was going to say I can see a horsey, but I think I won't bother now." says Charlie Brown.
But once again I have been distracted. I was telling you about the spiritually uplifting experience that I had this morning.
This morning I woke up at about 4am. This was largely because I had gone to bed rather early the night before. My weekend had consisted of two rather heavy bouts of drinking. The first on Friday evening with work colleagues and the second on Saturday afternoon to celebrate the 50th birthday of an old friend. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, I was rather worse for wear and retired for the evening by about 7:30pm. Shortly afterward I was sleeping blissfully and hence you find me, at 4am, staring at the curtains that cover the doors opposite my bed.
It was at this time that I was reminded of the phenomenon of pareidolia, for after a minute or two of staring at the curtain, my brain managed to conjure a face to stare back at me. It was clearly a female face, although it didn't appear to be the Blessed Virgin Mary (or BVM as she is often called) for it was a rather full-lipped female face with eyes that featured the epicanthal fold characteristic of most people of asian descent. It was remarkably detailed, but I should warn before we go on that this was not the spiritually uplifting experience that I spoke of earlier. I'm getting to that.
My initial reaction was one of a sort of detached, intellectual amusement along with a certain measure of relief that the boredom had been slightly alleviated. I have read about and even experienced the phenomenon many times and I never fail to be amused by the tricks that my own brain can play.
Eventually I became sufficiently bored that I turned on the radio where I found the BBC world news was reporting on a police raid that had been conducted in Belgium. My recent thought of the Blessed Virgin Mary notwithstanding, I was more than a little pleased to learn that the raid had been conducted on the Catholic Church.
The pope, apparently is outraged. I struggle to understand how he can manage this because the Belgian Catholic Church appears to be staffed by the most notorious collection of kiddy-fiddlers yet uncovered. One of the more monstrous of these rock-spiders, one Roger Vangheluwe, has admitted to abusing young boys even after being ordained as a bishop! But apparently the pope, that guardian of moral decency, had managed to get himself worked into such a state that he had one of his flunkies call in the Belgian Ambassador and hand him "a formal protest note."
As thrilling as this news was, it was not the source of the spiritually uplifting experience that I spoke of earlier. That came just a few minutes later.
BBC reports are generally introduced by an announcer giving the name of the reporter and the topic, then at the end of the report, the same BBC announcer will solemnly sign off with the name of the reporter and the location of the report. So we get an introduction that might say "Ingrid Feldman reports on the recent death of parrots in Norway" followed by a signing off that will simply be "Ingrid Feldman in Norway"
In the case of the report on the raid of the bishops, I didn't hear the opening announcement. While that was being made, I was staring at a mysterious face in my curtains. I did hear the closing announcement and it was this that as the source of my spiritually uplifting experience. I don't suppose it can be held out as proof of and gods, but if we posit their existence, then it is proof that whatever gods may be, they certainly have a sense of humour. The sign off was;
"David Willie, Belgium"
Chikenz points today will be obvious if you can spot them.
Thursday 24 June 2010
Australia Post
I moved a month ago. Or thereabouts.
When we moved, we redirected our mail to our new address. Good thinking eh?
Shortly afterward I decided that I would, in fact, get a post office box rather than simply using my home address. My new home is in the city and I wanted to be sure that my mail is safe.
So I went to the Post Office and arranged a PO box and arranged for all my mail to be redirected there. I explained that there was already one mail redirection in place, but that I actually wanted all my mail to go to my new PO box. I was told not to worry because all the mail will be redirected anyway. Mail that was sent to my old address would be redirected to my new address and from there it would be redirected to the PO box.
"It doesn't really matter" said the helpful man at the Post Office, "because it's all being done from this Post Office anyway."
Two weeks later the complete absence of any redirected mail caused me some concern, so I visited the Post Office again with my copy of the redirection forms in hand.
"We can't help you here" said a different, slightly less helpful man. "You'll have to call the redirection centre."
"But you do the redirection here" I protested.
"It's all managed from the redirection centre. You'll have to call them. The number's on the form there."
So I called the number on the form. A recorded voice told me to press one for a personal castration kit, press 2 for a backyard lobotomy kit or press 3 for anything else. I pressed three. Another recorded voice asked me to press 1 for business services (what are they?) or face west for international services or press 3 for everything else. I pressed 3. Another recorded voice gave me a long speech about how careful everybody at Australia Post is about my privacy and that they might just record my conversation so they can prove it to me later.
A click and a whirr and then another recorded voice told me that everybody was frightfully busy now and I should either call back later, go check their website or prepare for a long wait.
I waited.
Some time later another voice, this one allegedly belonging to an actual person, claimed to be 'Amanda' and implied that she could help me. I explained the circumstances. She said
"Well you'll have to call the redirection centre."
"This is the redirection centre" I protested.
"Well this is customer service. You want complaints. I'll put you through"
"When I went went to the Post Office they told me to call this number."
Amanda sighed heavily and quietly said "Unbelievable." Then there was another click and another whirr and I was once again confronted with a recorded voice asking me to press 1 to invade Poland, press 2 for a 40,000km service or press 3 for everything else.
I'll spare you the details, but I went through various menus, recorded messages about my privacy, recorded messages about how busy everyone is and recorded messages telling me to go away and check their website. Then the phone was answered.
"Hello, this is Amanda, how may I help you" said Amanda.
I am absolutely serious.
"Didn't I just speak to you?" I asked.
There was a pause. A silent one. A pause full of expectation and thought. Then there was another pause.
"No." said Amanda.
"Well it sounded like you." I said and then explained my problems with mail redirection. Somewhat tersely.
Amanda made little grunting noises that sounded suspiciously like someone pretending to be interested and said "just a sec." Then she put me on hold. While I was on hold, yet another recorded voice told me how important I was and how desperate everyone associated with Australian Post was to please me. This deep, smooth voice gave me the impression that the entire organisation was standing by expectantly, desperately hoping that I would be content with their services.
After a minute or two Amanda came back to the phone. She seemed less concerned with my level of satisfaction that the deep, smooth voice had seemed. She asked me what my reference number was.
"I don't have a reference number, but I have a customer number on this form." I said
"No, not the customer number, the reference number." said Amanda.
"I don't have a reference number." I said again.
"Well you should have got one when you first made the complaint." said Amanda
"This is the first time I made the complaint" I said
"Just a sec." said Amanda and put me on hold again.
Two or three minutes later Amanda came back and said "So what's your complaint?"
"Well I'm not getting any redirected mail" I said.
"Maybe there isn't any." said Amanda.
"There is. I know there is." I said
"Well maybe there's not. " said Amanda
"I sent a letter to myself at the old address to make sure the redirection was working." I said. This was a lie, but on the spur of the moment, I considered it a pretty good one.
"Just a sec." said Amanda and put me on hold again.
Amanda came back and asked for the various redirection addresses.
"I'll report the problem and have someone look into it." said Amanda, "You'll need to make sure you quote the reference number I gave you if you call us back."
"You didn't give me a reference number." I said
"Just a sec." said Amanda
Eventually I got my reference number and a week later, in the absence of any redirected mail, I struck upon a cunning plan. I sent the chikenz to deal with them.
The chikenz went through a process similar to the one that I had gone through with the fundamental difference that by the end of the chikenz's discussions, it had become quite clear that everything was my fault and that I should sort it out or face the consequences. The precise nature of the consequences was not clear to me, but consequences are never nice. They are to be avoided.
Then yesterday, there was still no redirected mail. We have had the PO box for over a month and there has never been any redirected mail. I called Australia Post again.
I do not expect you to believe me, but I assure you that it's true when I say that after a series of voice menus, recorded messages and admonishments to go away and check their website a voice answered the phone and said;
"Hello, this is Amanda, how may I help you"
This time I didn't even ask. I simply assumed that everyone working for Australia Post is called 'Amanda'. Even the blokes.
I'll spare you the minutiae, but suffice to say that Amanda went through her usual routine of asking for my reference number, telling me "just a sec", putting me on hold so that I could listen to recorded messages about how important I was and sighing heavily.
After a while, she broke the routine and asked;
"Why have you redirected your mail to box 149?"
"I haven't," I said, "I've redirected it to 419."
"No you haven't, I can see here that it's been redirected to 149. That's not your box number."
"No, it's not. But I didn't redirect it there..."
"Well I can see it here in front of me. You've redirected it to 149." interrupted Amanda. "I'll have to change it all now."
The tone of Amanda's voice made it clear that the enormous difficulties that she already faced had been considerably exacerbated by my inconsiderate and clearly deliberate mistake.
"Amanda," I said, "I have the form here in front of me. It clearly says box 419."
"Just a sec." said Amanda.
Eventually Amanda returned and, rather more chirpily than before, told me that she had fixed everything and that all my old mail was being delivered to my PO box at this very minute.
"Thank you." I said.
"Not to worry," said Amanda cheerfully, "these things happen!"
I hung up and later that day collected over a months worth of redirected mail from my PO box, which, for reasons that probably deserve a separate post entirely, included six identical Dick Smith catalogues. My problem though was that Amanda was still annoying me. She clearly absolved herself and her wretched organisation from any blame with her chipper little "these things happen!" but as it was the end of the conversation there was little I could say. I should have had a comeback. A real zinger that made it plain that not only was this in fact her fault, not mine, but that she was a stupid bint as well.
I thought about this for a while, wondering what comeback would have been suitable? What could I have said that would convey the message? The moment had passed, but still it would be nice to have something on standby for next time. Eventually I realised. What I should have said was;
"Not only is this in fact your fault, not mine, but you are a stupid bint as well."
Best to keep things simple.
When we moved, we redirected our mail to our new address. Good thinking eh?
Shortly afterward I decided that I would, in fact, get a post office box rather than simply using my home address. My new home is in the city and I wanted to be sure that my mail is safe.
So I went to the Post Office and arranged a PO box and arranged for all my mail to be redirected there. I explained that there was already one mail redirection in place, but that I actually wanted all my mail to go to my new PO box. I was told not to worry because all the mail will be redirected anyway. Mail that was sent to my old address would be redirected to my new address and from there it would be redirected to the PO box.
"It doesn't really matter" said the helpful man at the Post Office, "because it's all being done from this Post Office anyway."
Two weeks later the complete absence of any redirected mail caused me some concern, so I visited the Post Office again with my copy of the redirection forms in hand.
"We can't help you here" said a different, slightly less helpful man. "You'll have to call the redirection centre."
"But you do the redirection here" I protested.
"It's all managed from the redirection centre. You'll have to call them. The number's on the form there."
So I called the number on the form. A recorded voice told me to press one for a personal castration kit, press 2 for a backyard lobotomy kit or press 3 for anything else. I pressed three. Another recorded voice asked me to press 1 for business services (what are they?) or face west for international services or press 3 for everything else. I pressed 3. Another recorded voice gave me a long speech about how careful everybody at Australia Post is about my privacy and that they might just record my conversation so they can prove it to me later.
A click and a whirr and then another recorded voice told me that everybody was frightfully busy now and I should either call back later, go check their website or prepare for a long wait.
I waited.
Some time later another voice, this one allegedly belonging to an actual person, claimed to be 'Amanda' and implied that she could help me. I explained the circumstances. She said
"Well you'll have to call the redirection centre."
"This is the redirection centre" I protested.
"Well this is customer service. You want complaints. I'll put you through"
"When I went went to the Post Office they told me to call this number."
Amanda sighed heavily and quietly said "Unbelievable." Then there was another click and another whirr and I was once again confronted with a recorded voice asking me to press 1 to invade Poland, press 2 for a 40,000km service or press 3 for everything else.
I'll spare you the details, but I went through various menus, recorded messages about my privacy, recorded messages about how busy everyone is and recorded messages telling me to go away and check their website. Then the phone was answered.
"Hello, this is Amanda, how may I help you" said Amanda.
I am absolutely serious.
"Didn't I just speak to you?" I asked.
There was a pause. A silent one. A pause full of expectation and thought. Then there was another pause.
"No." said Amanda.
"Well it sounded like you." I said and then explained my problems with mail redirection. Somewhat tersely.
Amanda made little grunting noises that sounded suspiciously like someone pretending to be interested and said "just a sec." Then she put me on hold. While I was on hold, yet another recorded voice told me how important I was and how desperate everyone associated with Australian Post was to please me. This deep, smooth voice gave me the impression that the entire organisation was standing by expectantly, desperately hoping that I would be content with their services.
After a minute or two Amanda came back to the phone. She seemed less concerned with my level of satisfaction that the deep, smooth voice had seemed. She asked me what my reference number was.
"I don't have a reference number, but I have a customer number on this form." I said
"No, not the customer number, the reference number." said Amanda.
"I don't have a reference number." I said again.
"Well you should have got one when you first made the complaint." said Amanda
"This is the first time I made the complaint" I said
"Just a sec." said Amanda and put me on hold again.
Two or three minutes later Amanda came back and said "So what's your complaint?"
"Well I'm not getting any redirected mail" I said.
"Maybe there isn't any." said Amanda.
"There is. I know there is." I said
"Well maybe there's not. " said Amanda
"I sent a letter to myself at the old address to make sure the redirection was working." I said. This was a lie, but on the spur of the moment, I considered it a pretty good one.
"Just a sec." said Amanda and put me on hold again.
Amanda came back and asked for the various redirection addresses.
"I'll report the problem and have someone look into it." said Amanda, "You'll need to make sure you quote the reference number I gave you if you call us back."
"You didn't give me a reference number." I said
"Just a sec." said Amanda
Eventually I got my reference number and a week later, in the absence of any redirected mail, I struck upon a cunning plan. I sent the chikenz to deal with them.
The chikenz went through a process similar to the one that I had gone through with the fundamental difference that by the end of the chikenz's discussions, it had become quite clear that everything was my fault and that I should sort it out or face the consequences. The precise nature of the consequences was not clear to me, but consequences are never nice. They are to be avoided.
Then yesterday, there was still no redirected mail. We have had the PO box for over a month and there has never been any redirected mail. I called Australia Post again.
I do not expect you to believe me, but I assure you that it's true when I say that after a series of voice menus, recorded messages and admonishments to go away and check their website a voice answered the phone and said;
"Hello, this is Amanda, how may I help you"
This time I didn't even ask. I simply assumed that everyone working for Australia Post is called 'Amanda'. Even the blokes.
I'll spare you the minutiae, but suffice to say that Amanda went through her usual routine of asking for my reference number, telling me "just a sec", putting me on hold so that I could listen to recorded messages about how important I was and sighing heavily.
After a while, she broke the routine and asked;
"Why have you redirected your mail to box 149?"
"I haven't," I said, "I've redirected it to 419."
"No you haven't, I can see here that it's been redirected to 149. That's not your box number."
"No, it's not. But I didn't redirect it there..."
"Well I can see it here in front of me. You've redirected it to 149." interrupted Amanda. "I'll have to change it all now."
The tone of Amanda's voice made it clear that the enormous difficulties that she already faced had been considerably exacerbated by my inconsiderate and clearly deliberate mistake.
"Amanda," I said, "I have the form here in front of me. It clearly says box 419."
"Just a sec." said Amanda.
Eventually Amanda returned and, rather more chirpily than before, told me that she had fixed everything and that all my old mail was being delivered to my PO box at this very minute.
"Thank you." I said.
"Not to worry," said Amanda cheerfully, "these things happen!"
I hung up and later that day collected over a months worth of redirected mail from my PO box, which, for reasons that probably deserve a separate post entirely, included six identical Dick Smith catalogues. My problem though was that Amanda was still annoying me. She clearly absolved herself and her wretched organisation from any blame with her chipper little "these things happen!" but as it was the end of the conversation there was little I could say. I should have had a comeback. A real zinger that made it plain that not only was this in fact her fault, not mine, but that she was a stupid bint as well.
I thought about this for a while, wondering what comeback would have been suitable? What could I have said that would convey the message? The moment had passed, but still it would be nice to have something on standby for next time. Eventually I realised. What I should have said was;
"Not only is this in fact your fault, not mine, but you are a stupid bint as well."
Best to keep things simple.
Tuesday 22 June 2010
A couple
A couple, strictly speaking, has the meaning two. However the English language being what it is, I contend that, in casual usage, "a couple" can be used to mean 3 or 4. Certain persons disagree. I would value your input on this matter.
Thursday 17 June 2010
Resuming regular transmission
Now that the housewarming guests have stopped looking at the blog to see whether or not they get a mention, I suppose I can resume regular transmissions. The regulars are probably a bit disappointed at how polite and social I've been over the last few blogs, but there you go. At least I managed to break a few page-impression records and some of the housewarming guests even clicked on advertising links.
Anyway, I'll get back to you all later.
Anyway, I'll get back to you all later.
Sunday 13 June 2010
The Housewarming
The Housewarming has been run and done and there are some photos below.
Many thanks to everyone that came along and thank you for your kind gifts.
Couple of people deserve special thanks. On the third row down of the photos (just under the photo of the St Hugo's) is Sophie, who was the number one assistant hostess for the day and did a sterling job. Just under her, in the middle of Akino and I is Orie, who cooked all the Japanese style finger food (and the cheesecake) that appear to have been a great success.
Richard, who did all the cooking is there too. If you didn't figure it out, Richard is the one that crashed a helicopter into a swimming pool. Thank you Richard! and second from the bottom is Andrew Brown sharing his three witty stories.
Right now I am nursing a mild hangover and wondering what I am going to do with quite an astonishing amount of leftover steaks and bread rolls, so I apologise if this post is not up to the usual standard.
Hope everyone had a good time and that you can all come back in a few years time for the renovation-completion party!
Many thanks to everyone that came along and thank you for your kind gifts.
Couple of people deserve special thanks. On the third row down of the photos (just under the photo of the St Hugo's) is Sophie, who was the number one assistant hostess for the day and did a sterling job. Just under her, in the middle of Akino and I is Orie, who cooked all the Japanese style finger food (and the cheesecake) that appear to have been a great success.
Richard, who did all the cooking is there too. If you didn't figure it out, Richard is the one that crashed a helicopter into a swimming pool. Thank you Richard! and second from the bottom is Andrew Brown sharing his three witty stories.
Right now I am nursing a mild hangover and wondering what I am going to do with quite an astonishing amount of leftover steaks and bread rolls, so I apologise if this post is not up to the usual standard.
Hope everyone had a good time and that you can all come back in a few years time for the renovation-completion party!
Wednesday 9 June 2010
My first follower!
Exciting news.
I have my first follower! Fame and fortune awaits and very soon I will have thousands of followers and Hollywood producers will be making movies about me.
Unfortunately my first follower appears to be "me me" which sounds suspiciously like a female Chinese swimmer. This may mean that I will shortly be inundated with spam emails offering discounted human growth hormone, but that's a small price to pay.
You too can be a follower. There's a link about halfway down on the right hand side of the page. Sign up and I'll make sure you get a mention in the movie.
I have my first follower! Fame and fortune awaits and very soon I will have thousands of followers and Hollywood producers will be making movies about me.
Unfortunately my first follower appears to be "me me" which sounds suspiciously like a female Chinese swimmer. This may mean that I will shortly be inundated with spam emails offering discounted human growth hormone, but that's a small price to pay.
You too can be a follower. There's a link about halfway down on the right hand side of the page. Sign up and I'll make sure you get a mention in the movie.
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Friday 4 June 2010
Chikenz Race
As many of you may recall, the chikenz next big race is on this Sunday. I will be leading the support crew for the day and the forecast is for an incredibly pissed off support crew by the end of the day.
In the event that there is a small break in the rain, I might decide to take a couple of photos, which I will then post here. Stay tuned.
Another very big chikenz-thanks to everyone who has donated so far. The chikenz is very excited at all the donations that she has received but a bit perplexed to discover that someone apart from me reads this blog. "Why would they read it? It's mostly just rubbish."
Last chance to make a donation!
In the event that there is a small break in the rain, I might decide to take a couple of photos, which I will then post here. Stay tuned.
Another very big chikenz-thanks to everyone who has donated so far. The chikenz is very excited at all the donations that she has received but a bit perplexed to discover that someone apart from me reads this blog. "Why would they read it? It's mostly just rubbish."
Last chance to make a donation!
Friday 28 May 2010
House
Some of you will already know that we moved recently.
Until about a month ago, the chikenz and I lived in Rozelle/Balmain. A lovely part of the world, with a surfeit of pubs that demanded my constant attention. We quite enjoyed living there, but decided that we had had enough of living in the suburbs and decided to move to the city. Really to the city.
Our new house is in a location such that if you dropped me onto the Sydney Harbour Bridge, from a low height and in such a way that I wasn't seriously injured, I could walk home in less than 10 minutes.
This being the case, we are having a housewarming party. Chances are that you have already been invited, but if you haven't there are four possible reasons.
And finally, a very very big chikenz thank-you to everyone who donated to the chikenz MS run. Each of you receive 37 chikenz points that can be redeemed for your favourite thing at that place over there. The chikenz is quite pleased, which means I'm quite pleased too. For the rest of you, it's not too late! Go visit the donating place and astonish us with your generosity.
Until about a month ago, the chikenz and I lived in Rozelle/Balmain. A lovely part of the world, with a surfeit of pubs that demanded my constant attention. We quite enjoyed living there, but decided that we had had enough of living in the suburbs and decided to move to the city. Really to the city.
Our new house is in a location such that if you dropped me onto the Sydney Harbour Bridge, from a low height and in such a way that I wasn't seriously injured, I could walk home in less than 10 minutes.
This being the case, we are having a housewarming party. Chances are that you have already been invited, but if you haven't there are four possible reasons.
- I don't have your email address
- You live in foreign parts of the world that would preclude your attendance.
- I forgot.
- I just don't like you.
And finally, a very very big chikenz thank-you to everyone who donated to the chikenz MS run. Each of you receive 37 chikenz points that can be redeemed for your favourite thing at that place over there. The chikenz is quite pleased, which means I'm quite pleased too. For the rest of you, it's not too late! Go visit the donating place and astonish us with your generosity.
Wednesday 26 May 2010
Rabbits
I work in an office.
About 3-4 days per week I am based at the "home" office. Which is to say the office of the company I work for. On the other 1-2 days per week I am at a customer site providing wisdom and instruction in exchange for cash. Think of it as being my contribution to the greater good.
When I am at my home office, I have a cubicle of my very own. Like untold millions around the world, I am seated in an area that, if I were some sort of farm animal, would be considered cruel and inhumane. I am, I suppose, a battery worker.
One of the very few benefits of such an arrangement is that I am entertained by the day-to-day domestic situations of my colleagues. Over the past few weeks, an Iranian colleague who, for the purpose of this blog, I shall refer to as Darius, has been desperately attempting to secure accommodation. His current landlord has indicated a desire to relieve himself of the burden of having actual tenants and so my Iranian friend has been having hushed conversations with prospective landlords. Usually along the lines of, "yes, that's me well yes I am nah, that guy was just making trouble, so I said there's no way I'm paying and just told him to get stuffed."
Around this time the conversation become ever more distant as Darius makes his way from his cubicle to one of our meeting rooms. Some time later he will reappear and moodily hammer away at his keyboard for a time before announcing that "people just don't trust anybody any more" or some similar such observation based on man's inhumanity to man. Often vaguely related to the capricious nature of prospective landlords too.
Darius is often engaged in conversation at this point by another of my cubicle neighbours. This chap (I shall refer to him as Sunil) could be called a friend of Darius as they are often engaged in amiable chit-chat with each other and are given to taking lunch together. A sanguine yet laconic fellow, Sunil is given to making a small observation that a landlord must take care of his own interests and then listening sympathetically while Darius bemoans the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.
The communication problem is sometimes compounded by the difficulty presented in having English is a second language, which is the case for both of them. Whilst I would not describe either as 'heavily accented', each of them has a distinct mode of speech. This sometimes leads to confusion.
Today, Darius returned from an errand and remarked that "Rabbit Photo is not at Macquarie any more." Macquarie being the local shopping centre you see.
"What is rapid photo?" asked Sunil with an idiosyncratic lateral head wobble.
"Not rapid, rabbit. It's rabbit photo" replied Darius
"There is a rabbit?"
"No. It's a photo place. You know, like one-hour photos."
"Ah! it's rapid."
"no. It's called Rabbit photos! RABBIT"
"So it's rapid rabbit photos." said Sunil, head wobbling all the more emphatically and clearly pleased with his his witty retort.
I couldn't resist.
"What are you talking about rapid photo?" I asked.
Darius was clearly frustrated. "It's not rapid, it RABBIT! You know R-A-B-I-T ... QUACK QUACK!!"
I can only presume that Iranian rabbits are rather more vocally skilled than Australian rabbits.
Today's chikenz-points go to the first person to spot the movie quote and name the movie.
About 3-4 days per week I am based at the "home" office. Which is to say the office of the company I work for. On the other 1-2 days per week I am at a customer site providing wisdom and instruction in exchange for cash. Think of it as being my contribution to the greater good.
When I am at my home office, I have a cubicle of my very own. Like untold millions around the world, I am seated in an area that, if I were some sort of farm animal, would be considered cruel and inhumane. I am, I suppose, a battery worker.
One of the very few benefits of such an arrangement is that I am entertained by the day-to-day domestic situations of my colleagues. Over the past few weeks, an Iranian colleague who, for the purpose of this blog, I shall refer to as Darius, has been desperately attempting to secure accommodation. His current landlord has indicated a desire to relieve himself of the burden of having actual tenants and so my Iranian friend has been having hushed conversations with prospective landlords. Usually along the lines of, "yes, that's me
Around this time the conversation become ever more distant as Darius makes his way from his cubicle to one of our meeting rooms. Some time later he will reappear and moodily hammer away at his keyboard for a time before announcing that "people just don't trust anybody any more" or some similar such observation based on man's inhumanity to man. Often vaguely related to the capricious nature of prospective landlords too.
Darius is often engaged in conversation at this point by another of my cubicle neighbours. This chap (I shall refer to him as Sunil) could be called a friend of Darius as they are often engaged in amiable chit-chat with each other and are given to taking lunch together. A sanguine yet laconic fellow, Sunil is given to making a small observation that a landlord must take care of his own interests and then listening sympathetically while Darius bemoans the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.
The communication problem is sometimes compounded by the difficulty presented in having English is a second language, which is the case for both of them. Whilst I would not describe either as 'heavily accented', each of them has a distinct mode of speech. This sometimes leads to confusion.
Today, Darius returned from an errand and remarked that "Rabbit Photo is not at Macquarie any more." Macquarie being the local shopping centre you see.
"What is rapid photo?" asked Sunil with an idiosyncratic lateral head wobble.
"Not rapid, rabbit. It's rabbit photo" replied Darius
"There is a rabbit?"
"No. It's a photo place. You know, like one-hour photos."
"Ah! it's rapid."
"no. It's called Rabbit photos! RABBIT"
"So it's rapid rabbit photos." said Sunil, head wobbling all the more emphatically and clearly pleased with his his witty retort.
I couldn't resist.
"What are you talking about rapid photo?" I asked.
Darius was clearly frustrated. "It's not rapid, it RABBIT! You know R-A-B-I-T ... QUACK QUACK!!"
I can only presume that Iranian rabbits are rather more vocally skilled than Australian rabbits.
Today's chikenz-points go to the first person to spot the movie quote and name the movie.
Thursday 20 May 2010
That was it.
Some weeks ago, the Chikenz invested $6.00 with Foxtel in order to obtain 48 hours access to the, errm, documentary(?) "This is it
" which allegedly features Michael Jackson. The Chikenz is quite fond of Michael Jackson and never tires of telling me how 'sugoi' he is.
I was in the same room as the Chikenz, reading 'Rogue Herries
' by Hugh Walpole, so I was unable to avoid some degree of exposure to the documentary in question. I have some trouble labelling it as a documentary, because it seems to be more a collection of random footage taken while 'MJ' did rehearsals for what was to have been his final concert tour. As we know now, Michael Jackson was unable to complete that tour due to mobility issues. Death will do that to you.
Frankly though, I have grave reservations that he actually made it as far as "This is it" contends. Hence the 'allegedly' in the first paragraph.
It seems to me that the figure presented on my television, held out to be Michael Jackson, was a CGI. A rather poorly created one too. It looked rather like the folks that populate that movie with the blue people in it
, but not quite so professionally done. In fact, as I watched further, it seemed increasingly unlikely that the figure held out to be Michael Jackson was actually a real person.
I came to suspect that Michael Jackson, shortly after the release of 'Thriller', decided that it was all a bit silly, that the joke had gone on long enough, and that he would retire to the magnificent seclusion of wherever it was he went. Meanwhile, a team of record company executives, realising that the gravy train had coagulated, decided to take matters into their own hands and started featuring a hologram of Michael Jackson in their video clips.
I further suspect that when they decided to age the hologram, they did so using a wiki method, whereby they could all have input. As wikis invariable do, this lead to a series of increasingly heated and obscure arguments that resulted in various compromises and an end product that was noticeably worse than it would have been had any one of the contributors been left to their individual devices.
And that was it.
Chikenz points today go to the first one to spot the tribute and name the source.
" which allegedly features Michael Jackson. The Chikenz is quite fond of Michael Jackson and never tires of telling me how 'sugoi' he is.I was in the same room as the Chikenz, reading 'Rogue Herries
' by Hugh Walpole, so I was unable to avoid some degree of exposure to the documentary in question. I have some trouble labelling it as a documentary, because it seems to be more a collection of random footage taken while 'MJ' did rehearsals for what was to have been his final concert tour. As we know now, Michael Jackson was unable to complete that tour due to mobility issues. Death will do that to you.Frankly though, I have grave reservations that he actually made it as far as "This is it" contends. Hence the 'allegedly' in the first paragraph.
It seems to me that the figure presented on my television, held out to be Michael Jackson, was a CGI. A rather poorly created one too. It looked rather like the folks that populate that movie with the blue people in it
, but not quite so professionally done. In fact, as I watched further, it seemed increasingly unlikely that the figure held out to be Michael Jackson was actually a real person.I came to suspect that Michael Jackson, shortly after the release of 'Thriller', decided that it was all a bit silly, that the joke had gone on long enough, and that he would retire to the magnificent seclusion of wherever it was he went. Meanwhile, a team of record company executives, realising that the gravy train had coagulated, decided to take matters into their own hands and started featuring a hologram of Michael Jackson in their video clips.
I further suspect that when they decided to age the hologram, they did so using a wiki method, whereby they could all have input. As wikis invariable do, this lead to a series of increasingly heated and obscure arguments that resulted in various compromises and an end product that was noticeably worse than it would have been had any one of the contributors been left to their individual devices.
And that was it.
Chikenz points today go to the first one to spot the tribute and name the source.
Tuesday 18 May 2010
The Chikenz is Running
On Sunday, 6th June, the Chikenz is running in the MS Funrun.
It's only 8km, so she'll barely be warmed up by the end, but she is very distressed at a lack of sponsorship. Her distress means that I suffer. So, you should all show your support by clicking on this link, taking out your credit card and making an enormous donation to a very worthy cause. Even if you don't feel that MS is a sufficiently worthy cause then I'm sure you'll agree that making my life just a little more bearable is a highly worthy cause.
I'll be writing about the event and slagging off at people who didn't sponsor her over the next few weeks.
Remember: pay early and pay often!
It's only 8km, so she'll barely be warmed up by the end, but she is very distressed at a lack of sponsorship. Her distress means that I suffer. So, you should all show your support by clicking on this link, taking out your credit card and making an enormous donation to a very worthy cause. Even if you don't feel that MS is a sufficiently worthy cause then I'm sure you'll agree that making my life just a little more bearable is a highly worthy cause.
I'll be writing about the event and slagging off at people who didn't sponsor her over the next few weeks.
Remember: pay early and pay often!
Friday 16 April 2010
The Tax Office
The tax office publishes a list, annually, of "the effective life of depreciating assets". This allows companies to look up a particular asset and see what the tax office claims to be the effective life.
Today's post is just to let you all know that the effective life of a stuffed crocodile is 20 years.
Today's post is just to let you all know that the effective life of a stuffed crocodile is 20 years.
Saturday 10 April 2010
Anonymous
There has certainly been a lot of replies from anonymous. Well there has been seven, in the last two posts, which is a lot in the context of this blog. 100% in fact. I guess I can understand that many of you would prefer that your association with this blog not be known to the wider public. Perhaps I am gaining notoriety? That would be good.
Anyway, anonymous has garnered all thirty-seven chikenz points recently and thirty-seven is one of my favourite numbers. Primarily because thirty-seven times three is 111. So a hearty chikenz-hoorah goes out to anonymous. I do suspect however that this would be two distinct anonymouses. But maybe I'll never know?
Anonymous has also managed to confuse me slightly. Having signed off "your friend T, the rock B." I was left briefly wondering whether 'Toto', the rock band had become a fan. I find this doubtful because I have never been a fan of theirs, although I did have a Japanese friend who once proudly proclaimed that Toto was his favourite band. He followed this up with a disturbingly good a capella rendition of the song 'Africa'.
But I digress.
So assuming that the 'B' is not band, I started to wonder if it might be "biblical". This could possibly make sense if the friend referred to was Paul. I know a couple of Pauls that lurk around this page and the biblical Paul was designated 'the Rock' by our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.
Interesting fact. If you say 'Jesus' backwards, it sounds quite a lot like sausage.
If it was Paul, I then have to decide what the 'T' is all about. Neither of the Pauls have a surname that starts with T and I can't think of what else it could mean. Very annoying.
Any further hints will be gratefully received and may lead to a more restful night's sleep.
Chikenz-points today go to the first person that can point out the pun in paragraph two.
Anyway, anonymous has garnered all thirty-seven chikenz points recently and thirty-seven is one of my favourite numbers. Primarily because thirty-seven times three is 111. So a hearty chikenz-hoorah goes out to anonymous. I do suspect however that this would be two distinct anonymouses. But maybe I'll never know?
Anonymous has also managed to confuse me slightly. Having signed off "your friend T, the rock B." I was left briefly wondering whether 'Toto', the rock band had become a fan. I find this doubtful because I have never been a fan of theirs, although I did have a Japanese friend who once proudly proclaimed that Toto was his favourite band. He followed this up with a disturbingly good a capella rendition of the song 'Africa'.
But I digress.
So assuming that the 'B' is not band, I started to wonder if it might be "biblical". This could possibly make sense if the friend referred to was Paul. I know a couple of Pauls that lurk around this page and the biblical Paul was designated 'the Rock' by our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.
Interesting fact. If you say 'Jesus' backwards, it sounds quite a lot like sausage.
If it was Paul, I then have to decide what the 'T' is all about. Neither of the Pauls have a surname that starts with T and I can't think of what else it could mean. Very annoying.
Any further hints will be gratefully received and may lead to a more restful night's sleep.
Chikenz-points today go to the first person that can point out the pun in paragraph two.
Thursday 8 April 2010
Wikipedia
Recently, I have been spending a disproportionate amount of my time at wikipedia. It's a fascinating place.
I can remember, as a small boy, my parents deciding to buy the Funk & Wagnalls encyclopaedia. It was available, one volume at a time, through various newsagencies. I seem to recall that a new volume was released once a month, but it may have been once a week. All I know is that it seemed to be an eternity between one volume and the next. Each time a new volume arrived, I would appropriate it immediately and retire to a place of seclusion. First I would check for any profanity, as any young boy would, then I would browse through the various entries that might appeal to me. I recall, for example, reading the entry on the Suez Canal and being entranced by the idea that some blokes had carved a channel through a desert in order to connect two oceans. Wonderful stuff.
There were (I think) 25 volumes and we missed the volume "M". Obviously this is the reason why I know so little about mathematics, meercats and Mexico. Wikipedia has allowed me to remedy this problem.
Wiki claims to have over 3 million English language articles now, so it may prove a more lengthy read than the Funk & Wagnalls of my youth. It does however, have the advantage of allowing me to make my own contributions. Most recently, it has allowed me to contribute "third opinions" where other folks have reached an impasse. So far, I have offered third opinions on a map of the Roman Empire that was being used in the "History of Georgia" page, the relevance of certain references in the "Types of Rape" page and an opinion on the relevance of certain categorisations on the "Omakaitse" page.
Omakaitse (as if you didn't know!) was a sort of people's militia that operated in Estonia during WWII. Fascinating.
So today's task is to identify my username in wikipedia. Good luck and let me know how you fare. Seventeen bonus points are on offer for the first correct answer.
I can remember, as a small boy, my parents deciding to buy the Funk & Wagnalls encyclopaedia. It was available, one volume at a time, through various newsagencies. I seem to recall that a new volume was released once a month, but it may have been once a week. All I know is that it seemed to be an eternity between one volume and the next. Each time a new volume arrived, I would appropriate it immediately and retire to a place of seclusion. First I would check for any profanity, as any young boy would, then I would browse through the various entries that might appeal to me. I recall, for example, reading the entry on the Suez Canal and being entranced by the idea that some blokes had carved a channel through a desert in order to connect two oceans. Wonderful stuff.
There were (I think) 25 volumes and we missed the volume "M". Obviously this is the reason why I know so little about mathematics, meercats and Mexico. Wikipedia has allowed me to remedy this problem.
Wiki claims to have over 3 million English language articles now, so it may prove a more lengthy read than the Funk & Wagnalls of my youth. It does however, have the advantage of allowing me to make my own contributions. Most recently, it has allowed me to contribute "third opinions" where other folks have reached an impasse. So far, I have offered third opinions on a map of the Roman Empire that was being used in the "History of Georgia" page, the relevance of certain references in the "Types of Rape" page and an opinion on the relevance of certain categorisations on the "Omakaitse" page.
Omakaitse (as if you didn't know!) was a sort of people's militia that operated in Estonia during WWII. Fascinating.
So today's task is to identify my username in wikipedia. Good luck and let me know how you fare. Seventeen bonus points are on offer for the first correct answer.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Sorry I'm late
Hello again. Sorry I'm late.
Last night I dreamed I went to Mandalay again.
OK, well maybe I didn't dream that, but I did have an interesting dream. Interesting to me anyway.
I dreamed that I was at a sort of resort. I was sitting on one of those wooden recliner type things that you often see at resorts. Typically, they have white cushions attached to them, but on this occasion, they did not.
I was sitting at the end of the recliner, you understand I was not in the reclining position but rather perched toward the foot of the recliner. Sitting on the recliner next to me was Tony Blair, the former British PM. He was seated in a similar way to me, toward the edge of the recliner.
We were engaged in a game of trivia. Questions were being posed to us in turn and we were answering them. One by one the questions were asked and each time we answered correctly. The tension was building with each question. Great matters depended on the winner of this rather odd little game although I cannot say with any accuracy precisely what those matters were. In fact now that I think of it, I can't really remember any of the questions or even who was asking them. All I can remember is that we were being asked those questions in turn and Tony, in his very cultivated British accent would answer his correctly and then me, with my rather more roguish Australian accent would answer my question. Also correctly. Each of us would stare intently at the other as that person's question was asked and wait breathlessly as it was answered.
As I may have mentioned before, it was tense.
Eventually Tony was asked to name three national governmental deputies. As soon as he was asked this, I realised that had the question been asked of me, I would only have been able to name two; Joe "Big F*cking Deal" Biden and La Guillarde, also known as Julia Gillard. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited anxiously for Tony's answer.
Rather than answer, Tony began to insist that the question be directed at me. His reasons were convoluted, but seemed to revolve around two facts. The first was that as a former world leader, the question would be too easy for him. The second was that he believed that he was getting all, the hard questions and it was only fair that the order should be reversed. You should remember, dear reader, that all these explanations were being made in Tony's wonderful speaking voice and thus the spectators were somewhat persuaded.
For my part, I of course objected strongly. I suspected that this was a ruse on Tony's part as he had perceived that I was worried about the question. You will be pleased to hear however, that I defended myself strenuously. I objected vehemently to the idea of changing the order so suddenly and simply and I pointed out to Tony the inconsistency in his first reason and his second reason.
My implacable logic left Tony slightly flummoxed and he began to insist that we should provide the three answers in turn. One at a time, so to speak.
The careful reader will spot the flaw in this plan. Should I be required to provide the first answer, I had two at my disposal, however by providing the first answer I should also have to provide the third. This could leave me in a tricky spot should Tony's answer be either Gillard or Biden. So I agreed on his suggestion so long as he went first. He objected of course.
After some further argument, it was agreed that Tony and I should play paper-scissors-rock in order to decide who goes first. Tony then asked whether dynamite was allowed in the game and demonstrated dynamite as a hand held in a first with the thumb pointing upward. I told him not to be ridiculous and that we should get on with the game.
So we started the first game of paper-scissors-rock. I'll note here that we used that Japanese cry of "JUN-KEN-PO!" as we brought our fists down three times before displaying wither paper, scissors or rock. I can think of no good reason why we did this, but in the interests of maintaining the strictest accuracy in my report, I note it here for the record.
On the third downward shake, I flattened my hand out, forming the shape for paper. Tony's hand remained as a fist for a moment and then slowly he pointed out two fingers and exclaimed "scissors!! I win!"
I was apoplectic. I told him that he had cheated and that he had first shown rock, which would have lost, befoe changing to scissors. This was not in the spirit of the game and I told him so. Forcefully.
Tony looked saddened and leaned toward me. He explained that it was a little known fact that at moments of high tension, such as this so obviously was, his hands sweated a great deal. He further told me (and all the spectators that had gathered around) that he suffered from arthritis in the hands. These two facts, he explained, meant that his fingers were quite sticky from the sweat and moved quite slowly due to the arthritis. This gave the impression that he was cheating, although, he said, nothing could be further from the truth.
You should remember, dear reader, that all of this was explained in Tony's wonderfully mellifluous voice. His slow, statesmanlike intonations falling like blocks of sandstone into a beautifully constructed argument that, while perfectly argued, was patently false. Nonetheless, he had persuaded the crowd and as I tried to argue that he was being unfair I found that several of them, albeit nameless and faceless, were staring at me as though I was kicking a puppy.
It would give me enormous pleasure to report here the outcome of my argument with Tony Blair, after all it's not often that one has the opprtunity to go mano-a-mano with a former world leader, but, once again holding accuracy of reporting above all else, I must tell you that it was at that moment that I woke up.
If you've read this far then I must apologise for not being able to provide a more satisfactory resolution. To make up for it, I am offering bonus points to the first person who correctly tells me the origin of the Mandalay quote above.
Last night I dreamed I went to Mandalay again.
OK, well maybe I didn't dream that, but I did have an interesting dream. Interesting to me anyway.
I dreamed that I was at a sort of resort. I was sitting on one of those wooden recliner type things that you often see at resorts. Typically, they have white cushions attached to them, but on this occasion, they did not.
I was sitting at the end of the recliner, you understand I was not in the reclining position but rather perched toward the foot of the recliner. Sitting on the recliner next to me was Tony Blair, the former British PM. He was seated in a similar way to me, toward the edge of the recliner.
We were engaged in a game of trivia. Questions were being posed to us in turn and we were answering them. One by one the questions were asked and each time we answered correctly. The tension was building with each question. Great matters depended on the winner of this rather odd little game although I cannot say with any accuracy precisely what those matters were. In fact now that I think of it, I can't really remember any of the questions or even who was asking them. All I can remember is that we were being asked those questions in turn and Tony, in his very cultivated British accent would answer his correctly and then me, with my rather more roguish Australian accent would answer my question. Also correctly. Each of us would stare intently at the other as that person's question was asked and wait breathlessly as it was answered.
As I may have mentioned before, it was tense.
Eventually Tony was asked to name three national governmental deputies. As soon as he was asked this, I realised that had the question been asked of me, I would only have been able to name two; Joe "Big F*cking Deal" Biden and La Guillarde, also known as Julia Gillard. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited anxiously for Tony's answer.
Rather than answer, Tony began to insist that the question be directed at me. His reasons were convoluted, but seemed to revolve around two facts. The first was that as a former world leader, the question would be too easy for him. The second was that he believed that he was getting all, the hard questions and it was only fair that the order should be reversed. You should remember, dear reader, that all these explanations were being made in Tony's wonderful speaking voice and thus the spectators were somewhat persuaded.
For my part, I of course objected strongly. I suspected that this was a ruse on Tony's part as he had perceived that I was worried about the question. You will be pleased to hear however, that I defended myself strenuously. I objected vehemently to the idea of changing the order so suddenly and simply and I pointed out to Tony the inconsistency in his first reason and his second reason.
My implacable logic left Tony slightly flummoxed and he began to insist that we should provide the three answers in turn. One at a time, so to speak.
The careful reader will spot the flaw in this plan. Should I be required to provide the first answer, I had two at my disposal, however by providing the first answer I should also have to provide the third. This could leave me in a tricky spot should Tony's answer be either Gillard or Biden. So I agreed on his suggestion so long as he went first. He objected of course.
After some further argument, it was agreed that Tony and I should play paper-scissors-rock in order to decide who goes first. Tony then asked whether dynamite was allowed in the game and demonstrated dynamite as a hand held in a first with the thumb pointing upward. I told him not to be ridiculous and that we should get on with the game.
So we started the first game of paper-scissors-rock. I'll note here that we used that Japanese cry of "JUN-KEN-PO!" as we brought our fists down three times before displaying wither paper, scissors or rock. I can think of no good reason why we did this, but in the interests of maintaining the strictest accuracy in my report, I note it here for the record.
On the third downward shake, I flattened my hand out, forming the shape for paper. Tony's hand remained as a fist for a moment and then slowly he pointed out two fingers and exclaimed "scissors!! I win!"
I was apoplectic. I told him that he had cheated and that he had first shown rock, which would have lost, befoe changing to scissors. This was not in the spirit of the game and I told him so. Forcefully.
Tony looked saddened and leaned toward me. He explained that it was a little known fact that at moments of high tension, such as this so obviously was, his hands sweated a great deal. He further told me (and all the spectators that had gathered around) that he suffered from arthritis in the hands. These two facts, he explained, meant that his fingers were quite sticky from the sweat and moved quite slowly due to the arthritis. This gave the impression that he was cheating, although, he said, nothing could be further from the truth.
You should remember, dear reader, that all of this was explained in Tony's wonderfully mellifluous voice. His slow, statesmanlike intonations falling like blocks of sandstone into a beautifully constructed argument that, while perfectly argued, was patently false. Nonetheless, he had persuaded the crowd and as I tried to argue that he was being unfair I found that several of them, albeit nameless and faceless, were staring at me as though I was kicking a puppy.
It would give me enormous pleasure to report here the outcome of my argument with Tony Blair, after all it's not often that one has the opprtunity to go mano-a-mano with a former world leader, but, once again holding accuracy of reporting above all else, I must tell you that it was at that moment that I woke up.
If you've read this far then I must apologise for not being able to provide a more satisfactory resolution. To make up for it, I am offering bonus points to the first person who correctly tells me the origin of the Mandalay quote above.
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