Watching the X-factor last night

...for the first time, and (apart from reminding me to buy a Pet Shop Boys album, just for those damn catchy tunes), I couldn't help but be struck by how much Rhydian looks like Arnold Rimmer. Maybe it was just the ridiculous uniform they made the poor boy wear.

I yam what I yam (call for list)

I'm glad I'm a boy

 

 12

I'm glad I'm a girl

 

 9

I wish I was the other. They seem to have a lot more fun.

 

 4

In conversation, (especially eavesdropping on other peoples'), I often feel glad I was born a boy. It's a lot less hassle and, as someone who should probably remain nameless said, "never trust anything that bleeds for three days and doesn't die".

Now I love women, they're fascinating, noble creatures. But I'm sure glad I'm not one. Quite apart from all the biological fuss, there's the bewildering array of clothes they can wear (much easier if you're a guy), the still-shocking chauvinism they encounter in so many walks of life, and the endless barrage of cultural messages about the unworthiness of their appearance which they seem to have to endure.

So, a list: I (am/am not) glad I'm a (boy/girl) (because/despite of):

NaNoWriMo fragment #3

"We have a policy
with Big Red Ship Security. They're already looking for the Little Black Pig
system-wide. From the few shots we got, we reckon it's heading in-system,
possibly Janus or Pan."

Bernard shook his
head in disbelief. "It doesn't sound like Miguel. He really isn't smart when it
comes to people. He wouldn't have the first clue what to
do."

Bernie eyed him with
hostility. "Your pal has my girl hostage. I'm going to fucking kill him. Our Big
Red policy covers temporary weaponization of assets. Big Red finds him, tells us
where he is, and then I'm going to take the Tabitha and go and kill
him."

"Look, Bernie, I
understand, I know what it looks like. I was there, remember? I want to get
Annie back just as m- well, look, I want to get her back, too. I want to
help."

Bernie shook her
head at him in wonder. "I just don't believe I'm hearing this. Don't you think
you've caused enough trouble? You did your part just bringing him on
board."

He could see the
paranoia starting to spread behind her eyes. Wearily, he levered himself away
from the table. "Okay. Okay. But just listen for a second. I've been wracking my
brains thinking of places Miguel might go. I know he's visited Janus before; I
don't think he's ever been to Pan, or Enceladus. He-"

But she'd turned her
head away. Swinging her legs out, she batted herself away across the room.
Bernard was left, helpless, suddenly aware of the curious stares of the lunching
crewmembers all around him.

 

When he got back to
their quarters, Xin and David and the others were loafing around the cabin,
bored. Cold-shouldered by the Clown's crew, they'd ended up drifting back to
their bunks. Marcus had some specs on, and his hands poked listlessly at the
air, picking options in some menu only he could see. The others were reading, or
playing cards. Xin got up and gave him a brief hug as he slid the door
shut. 

"You
okay?"

He looked up,
surprised at her concern. "I tried to talk to Bernie."

She shook her head.
"Bernard..."

"She wouldn't
listen. I just can't believe that Miguel would do this. It's not like him to go
and do something so lunatic." He looked round at the raised eyebrows. "Well,
okay, it is," he conceded, "but not quite this crazy. And anyway, that ship was
way beyond him." He paused. Nobody would meet his eye. "What is
it?"

"Sit down." Xin
said gently. He sat.

"What's going
on?"

"Bernard," she said,
"The report Miguel heard? The one about the guy he stabbed being
dead?"

"Yes?"

She sighed. "It was
just some amateur murderwatch newsgroup. It was completely wrong. The guy's
recovering well - it was someone else that died, an eighty four year old who
happened to have the same surname. Some idiot was scrolling down the list and
got the two confused. We checked with the hospital. The newgroup moderators have
issued a retraction. Miguel's not a murderer at all, Bernard. He just
panicked, that's all."

Bernard stared at
her, caught between relief and horror. "I... no. Oh, no."

Xin caught his hand.
"Look, it's good news, okay? We just have to get the news to Miguel, talk him
down."

He was shaking his
head absently. "No, no, no. What a fuck up. I don't believe it. I just don't
believe it."

"Look, Bernie, it's
in the past, okay? Miguel's in trouble, sure, but he's not a murderer. We just
have to find him and talk him down. It'll be fine."

Pause. "Who else
knows?"

"Mikhail, a few
others. I don't think anyone from the Tabitha's crew have been told
yet."

He levered himself
up. "I have to go tell Bernie."

Xin caught his
jacket and pulled him back into his seat, shaking her head. "That's not for you.
That's a bad idea, you know that. Let Mikhail tell her. It'll be better coming
from him."

Caption me?: World Cup carton

There's something not quite right about this. I can seewhat they were
trying to do, but to me, it just says "Happy Cows during a Bank Raid"

Write your own job advert

Wanted: one CAD monkey. Must have infinite patience with dead-slug-in-a-straw slow computer links, and own supply of bananas. Ability to keep self amused during slow periods crucial. Ability to not mind too much when people at head office ignore your life's work and produce something dumb instead without so much as bothering to inform you, also helpful. Must be able to go for days without speaking to another living soul.

Benefits:

1. nobody really caring that you're using company resources and personnel to make light switch surrounds for your flat.
2. The ability to go bang things with hammers when stuff gets too frustrating.
3. Many many toys (lathes, chemi-etching, rapid prototyping machines, etc.) which can be pressed into service for various, er, personal projects. (see 1)
   

If you had to write an advert for your own job, what would it look like?

Bored

So I've been talking to the little people who live in my monitor stand,
and they claim that their crusade against the ring binder reinforcement
rings is over. I must say I think they're right - I certainly haven't
seen any at my desk in a long time. I must admit to feeling deeply
uncomfortable about this sort of Stationery Cleansing, though.

Now, claim the little people, the whole world is theirs, and they are
pledged to be good stewards of it and look after it. I think they're a
little bit worried about the environment, although I've promised to
tidy up all the paper.



Right now, I'm trying to encourage them to expand. I've explained to
them about Other Desks, but their reaction was extremely sceptical.
"How do we know other desks exist?" one of their mini-scientists
demanded, waving a shaving of pencil lead at me. "And if they do exist,
how do we know they will have breathable atmospheres?" I did point out
that if you go right out to the extreme limit of The Desk, it is
possible to catch sight of other Desks, but their eyesight isn't very
good, and their telescopes are laughable. They also demanded to know
how they were supposed to get there - I explained about rubber bands,
and elicited only a shocked silence.

"How fast?"

"Um. Thirty miles an hour?"

"And how big is a mile?"

I had to look it up. "It's about 170,000 centimetres." Too late I
remembered about their weird units. "Wait! A mile is... 224,000 U's.
Ish."

They laughed like hyenas at this one. At the moment, they're convinced
that they'll die if they travel more than about 30 U's an hour. One of
them managed to clamber to his feet to ask, "And how does the man with
the red flag stay in front?" Then they all collapsed back into laughter.

I waited patiently, but to no avail. They'd clearly had enough of my
nonsense. Still giggling and wiping their eyes, the little delegation
crawled back into the monitor stand.