Notes from Saturdays

 Is it rock bottom when you consider a job ad for a part-time nanny?

I'm working on this job that puts me in a coma once a day. I'm talking about that level of pointlessness & boredom that puts one into sleep with open eyes. And the sad thing is, the results of this work could mean homelessness for people. And in the back of my mind with those last dying sparks of lucidity I'm thinking “is this the right job for me? is this what I'm supposed to do with my time to get to that next step on the ladder that I think I should be on?” and I click and I type and slow-blink. I was in the middle of a mental resuscitation today when the asteroid hit; this old colleague who has recently moved office has been promoted. The girl is 10 years younger than me, started the same time as me and has stuck with the same team for five years and here I am, in a coma dying of jealousy. I can see why. I would promote her over me in a heartbeat. She’s consistent, she's good at that one thing, but then decided to take on a challenge; she took her time, she...

It’s been a while. Lately, I’ve been collecting all of my scattered notes from years. I find them on paper, in countless notebooks. l find them more recently in scattered word files on my work laptop. Bizarrely yet another evidence of the absence of boundary between private and corporate life. I came to take these notes and put them in the chronological order of my 67 page long Word file and delete the blog, then I realize I have 45 of these posts here. It suddenly felt unfair, like a crime against an entity with arms and legs. I think I’ll leave it here. It will be a bit of work transferring it to my file. I’ll give it a go. As for me in 2024, it’s more of the same in a new city, a bigger city in an apartment on the 16th floor overlooking the harbor. Other than that, it’s more of the same me maybe with less hair and a less fit body.

My colleague stinks.  That’s it. End of the story. Nothing I can do about it. I feel the stink slowly spreading itself and forming a sticky film over all surfaces, the desks, chairs, my clothes, the inside of my nostrils. I pack up and migrate to level 7 hot desks where people have long conversations about shit I don’t understand and smell of nothing. My colleague continues to stink and conquer the space one unwashed day at a time. 

Incoming email: Hi A, Thanks for the responses. I’ve given the matter a bit of thought and can’t reach a definite conclusion based on the information. I think it’s worthwhile having a quick workshop to clarify a few questions I’ve added in red. Can you all please confirm your availability this afternoon at X:30.  X:30 pm (Joining the Teams meeting of 8): -Hello. X+1:15 pm (Unmuting, muting, unmuting): -No, that was on Level 10 but yes, fairly s... (interrupted by Bob from Christchurch) X+2:30 pm -Thanks everyone. Bye. (Sigh, removes headset like a torture device)

I spent about a day creating this fabulous series of spreadsheets that talked to each other. I automated all the design so when Brian changed the input daily, my design & output would flow like a beautiful stream through the smooth paths meticulously engineered in Excel. Every one of the 4895 cells was revised, refined, tuned. I even got some help from some smart kid & automated it even more, so now 3 programs talked together flawlessly with one click. Hazza!  Brian went and renamed the main folder where one of my spreadsheets resides from Foundation to 9.0 Foundation. Fuck!