Monday, wrote Mr. Kipling, the ideal time to sit down and try to drink as much Stella as is humanly possible with some old chums. Under the guise of reminisicing on old times, many strong continental lagers were consumed by two fifths of the attendees in an attempt to gain advantage from an equally shared bar tab. The consequences were as predictable as a rabid scramble at last orders in a Glaswegian pub. After the drama was over, the ride home was less than peaceful, perched as I was on the rear shopping rail of Johnny the Fox’s bicycle. The ride home lasted for some side-splitting minutes, as John negotiated the large traffic calming devices on the roads. After many wobbles and near misses with those troublesome stationary vehicles, I caved in to gravity, and decided to wend the rest of my way home on foot.
Today was necessarily brain damaged, and unproductive.
Grey haired man in office: Does anyone have a HP 710?
Ron Malibu: No idea what that is, no
Ghmio: Are there any mathematicians in this office?
RM, pausing: Errr. Maybe. Do you need to do some tricky long division?
Ghmio, looking mortified and perturbed: I need someone with a specific calculator urgently.
RM: Don’t we all. Er. Try over there.
Ghmio walks off looking miffed.
RM finds a mobile phone and starts playing with it: Oooh look, a colour phone eveyone, who shall we phone.
Phone: beep beep beep.
Turns out that the Ghmio was John Mayo, ex chief of a large multinational worth about 40 billion dollars. Ha. How impressed was he with me, and the fact that I found his phone and started playing with it? Very, very.