It’s like working with a jumped-up Magna-Doodle. A fast Magna-Doodle to be sure, but still just a Magna-Doodle. (You know when you say a word so often it loses it’s meaning? Well that just happened then, with Magna-Doodle. Now I’m not sure if it’s a car, a dog, or type of high tech blackboard.)
I will explain. My workmate, Smurf, and I live and die by our laptops. They have very different personalities and have been given names to suit. Smurf’s is Kristaal (with a star instead of a dot over the “i” please. And her name is because her mum just loves the Champagne but couldn’t remember how to spell it.) Kristaal is an uptight 16-year-old, who has a bit of an attitude about work. She could do it really fast and well if she just settled down and… what-averrrrrrr.
Mine is Beryl; or was. Beryl was a solid as a rock tuck-shop-mother who had a sick day in 1979. Beryl was never going to win a Nobel, but you knew she would turn up and that the sarnies would be ready by lunch. Beryl, however, got a touch of old-timers and had to be taken out the back.
In my company, they don’t get you a new one until they’ve exhausted the possibilities with the old one. The company says things like “they will rebuild it” (they have the technology, apparently). But because of the need for IT nerds to make themselves feel important about everything they do, they say things like, “We’ll have to blow it away”. Or, “We'll have to flatten it, then ghost it”. What they are actually describing is a process where they punch a couple of keys and walk away for an hour.
I tell you all this because the distressing outcome is that the computer that has been steadily added to and personalised (daily) for the last couple of years has been flattened and blown away and ghosted. Beryl is sitting up in hospital with a big bandage on her head and a giant vacant grin. She’s never felt better but can’t tell you her kid’s names.
Nothing is installed, I’ve got no goodies, the freakin’ dictionary that I’ve been adding to for ages now panics at the sight of “freakin’” and the list goes on. Subsequently I do not have the technical wherewithal to present the following the way I’d like - with some clever photo shop fiddle on a real estate agent’s For Sale sign. I’m just going to have to deliver it by hand -
It’s murder season at the moment, it appears, and people all over Whitetrashville Australia have been helping themselves to a nice, tall, refreshing glass of crazy. When an Estate Agent is selling a large place in Redhick Heights, they should now advertise it with ‘Large Kitchen/Dining - Enough room to swing an axe.’
I know half of you are going to say “Jesus Grey Area, a bit early, dontcha think?” I don’t care, I’m a speaker of the truth.
Have you ever had one of those awkward moments where you're not sure if a person is using "Old-timers" instead of "Alzheimer's" on purpose or as a hilarious mistake?
ReplyDeleteNot that I can remember.
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