Morose in the office. Everybody is quitting. All
the people I like here are resigning; it is wholly
depressing.
Perhaps it's time to give the programming away. Here I am a shit-hot, gun coder — but is it time to try something else?
A few thoughts:
- Deckhand on a trawler?
- Work in a donkey shelter?
- Fashion model — obviously
- Hairdressing (“And so, how would you like it?…” “How is your morning going?…” I'd be a natural!)
- Run for mayor
- Gonzo journalism
- Firefighter
- Watchmaker (there's a career that's going places)
- Actuary
- Usher — no, what about a butler!
So I guess there are always plenty of options.
There's a musical playing the comedy festival at the
moment about one of our previous prime ministers. Those
bastards stole my idea! I was already half way through
writing one hell of a musical when I heard that those
bastards had stolen my idea.
But then, to give them credit, they've gone for
Keating which, looking back, is a stroke of genius. I
wish I'd thought of it: mine was about John McEwen.
I might just stick with the coding.
If you should ever feel the desire to feel butch and
manly you could do worse than spend the weekend removing
a gearbox from a car.
Not being a particularly car-mechanicky chap, my idea of fixing cars is to wait until one of the wheels falls off and then take it to the local repair shop. But, happily my housemate loves to tinker with cars and from time to time buys an old wreck, parks it in my backyard, fills my backyard with tools, ignores it all for about three months and then makes the car roadworthy and sells it. Good on him.
Over the weekend he and I replaced the clutch on the Ford which was oddly satisfying. I can sort of see what he finds so enjoyable about it: mostly it's how good you feel when you finally stop — much like jogging…
The task involves a great deal of lying underneath the body of the car on my brickwork which is now blanketed with oil mixed liberally with the dirt. Your hands and forearms are black with grease. The only conversations you have either are about socket wrenches or are just incoherent strings of F- and C-words.
Replacing a clutch involves removing in a particular order a number of parts that are all placed in awkward positions, buying a new clutch from a wrecker's (wreckers' are great fun, by the way — like those R-rated adult shops except with old radiators instead of crotchless knickers), putting it where the old one was and then bolting everything back on. As you would expect.
We were half-way through the last step when one of the bolts sheared off as we were tightening something.
Once again I have a car abandoned indefinitely in my back yard.
¶ 1:25 pm 5 comments
Pinched from Daniil Kharms by Harpo
¶ 11:30 am 5 comments
CAST:
Sir Robert Menzies, Prime Minister of Australia 1939-41,49-66
Kate Grenville, Author
SCENE:
Spanish seafront. Day.Curtain. Stage is empty. Enter Menzies, strolling. Perhaps muttering an early draft of some speech. Menzies trips over.
Menzies: Oh!Enter Grenville with a notepad and pen. She trips over Menzies.
Grenville: Oh, damn, Menzies!Menzies stands up. Goes to leave but trips over Grenville.
Menzies: Oh! Grenville!Grenville stands up. Goes to leave but trips over Menzies.
Grenville: D'oh! Again!Menzies stands up and trips over Grenville.
Menzies: Oh! Curse you authors!Grenville stands up and trips over Menzies.
Grenville: Damn! Menzies.Menzies stands up and trips over Grenville.
Menzies: Grenville!Grenville stands up and trips over Menzies.
Grenville: Bugger!Curtain falls as both are on the ground.
Menzies: (off) Grenville!
Grenville: (off) Menzies!
