For Whom the bell tolls

     I am typing these words from the discomfort of my commode. As again, dear reader, you are ahead of me…as you would have to be. Yes, I have entered the 20^th Century (albeit as most have already left it – still, there’s plenty of legroom.) and purchased a mobile communicator.

 

     Ah that’s better – I’m back on the main machine now. I was persuaded to purchase my communicator, as I have recently calculated that the average number of rings on the trusty AlexanderG is six. This takes one second less than the time for Grimblethorpe (my wrinkled retainer) takes to pace down the corridor and elevate the handset. As such, I can ensure that I am in immediate communication for the illumination my public. Although, I do have my reservations. The keyboard seems to have only ten tiny keys. It seems to be primarily designed for a small child with desire to be back with his Activity Centre. You would have thought the overpaid designer could have slapped a proper keyboard on the thing. No fear, dear reader, with a brief consultation with Dr. Brunel, I have managed to fashion a punch card-reading mechanism in place of the keys. Of course, this was no mean feat. The miniaturisation of the 19^th Century technology down to the size of the communicator.  Much more straightforward, I’m sure you’ll agree. This has the added advantage that I have a business card ready for each of my contacts. However, if you do wish to use the text facility then you will have to utilise my pack of playing cards that I have encrypted with 52 common English verbs, nouns and prepositions. Rather than being an extra burden, it nicely balances the bulge in your waistcoat.

     To be honest, I do see some use to the textpusher. It nicely allows you to determine valuable information from an associate without all that tedious mucking about with the time wasting pastime that is mockingly referred to as the art of conversation. By my calculation this suggests that I will reduce my hourglass turning with Dr. Brunel to the extent that I will pretty soon be able to open my own Bakery. I have already noticed that he gets quite steamed up if you text your reply as “Pardon?” Ho Ho.

     What exactly the point of the ‘Camera feature’ is I am not sure (this sentence is sponsored by the Rhetoric Society of America.)  I am sure that it appeals to any connoisseur of the photographic ‘shot through a dirty sock’ movement that was so fashionable in Notting Hill in the 1870s. I believe the mechanism is based upon the Camera Obscura – so you really need some strong light to produce a decent image. A strange accessory that seems slightly pointless is the incorporation of what is referred to in the manual as an MP3 player (Miniature Platter III actually.) . Included are two tiny vinyl discs. The choice seems a little curious. I have tried playing Laurel & Hardy’s perennial favourite On The Trail of the Lonesome Pine and Rabbit by Chas & Dave. The number by the former Combo must, I admit, has some merit if you listen between the scratches. The second duo were excruciating despite some quite well-balanced production. As a point of note, I noticed that if the communicator moved by a thousandth of an inch the needle would fly away from the disc. Definitely one for the Must Try Harder file. I will look forward to reviewing the MP4 technology in due course.

     Well, that is it for news of my latest look into groundbreaking technology. A small vibration in my pocket calls me away.

Christmas Special

     Let me regale you with the curious events of Christmas Day A.D. XXIX. Dr. Trousers was in fine form (as usual.) He was showing off his new Christmas trousers, and as such he was enshrouded by a halo of steam. He held court by showing us a most peculiar method of inflating balloons. Let me tell you, gentle reader, that we were all in fear of a single incident of balloon-burstage for the remainder of the evening. I will not relate in which room of the East-Wing this was hosted for reasons of sensibility. At this juncture, Dr. Brunel burst through the French Windows. As usual his timing was less than immaculate. A point of interest for future historians was that he was resplendent in a white suit. On gaining our attention, thus, he explaining in exquisite details how he had just purchased this new fabric, and the said fabric was fresh from the loom. His enthusiastic explanation of the science behind this revolution was slightly marred by the obvious scarring of the aforementioned suit (of the Sauron variety.) It seems that the charcoalesque motif was a tattoo of disaffection embroidered by running into a mob of angry ex-factory workers. Ho hum. He quickly descended upon the drinks cabinet. Stefan IV was in attendance on this occasion. Having not seen his erstwhile son for some years, there was a certain smile of pride on the elder’s visage. As you may recall from earlier missives, Stefan IV is, shall we say, a gentleman of letters. Having travelled far and wide, he has recently returned from an expedition to Madagascar. It seems that he had found a secret city, wherein he had discovered a secret route to the mythical Atlantis. Unfortunately this peculiar story was disturbed by Dr. Brunel falling upon a particularly large red balloon. The party was rapidly dismissed to the Venetian garden. As soon as the havanas were ashen, we were greeted by Mrs. Trousers. The dear lady was resplendent at the focus of the Farting Room, proudly displaying her Christmas Buns. She does this every year, and it is nothing to be worried about, but it still makes me smile. Unfortunately, on this occasion she had taken it into her pretty head to impregnate candles into the centre of her buns. The ignition of her husband’s methane forced her forcibly through the French Windows and (fortunately) into the arms of the deflated Dr. Trousers. As if that were not enough to cope with, this was the exact moment that Professor Huntingdon appeared. Call it an eccentricity, a foible even bloody-mindedness, but he does insist on always driving that damned clowns’ car. With an arrival accompanied with a honking of horns and wheels spinning hither and thither he had made his arrival. With a flurry of activity he rushed a strange contraption into the Smoking Room. With great anticipation he unsheathed his device. What was revealed to our eyes was a Rontgenesque device of baroque design. Huntingdon revealed that had improved the capability of the X-ray Visualiser. Indeed his calibrations made it possible to look into the very soul of the interrogated. Eager to investigate the alleged powers of the device, Stefan III was the first to brave the rays. Curiously his image revealed the largest stovepipe hat that I have ever seen. Before any analysis of the image could be made, Mrs Trousers fell under the influence of the beam. As I stand here today I must confess that I was surprised to cast my eyes upon a Graff Zeppelin. One can but wonder.  Dr. Brunel made the point that the very soul, as a matter of fact, cannot exist. We unanimously concluded that perhaps his didn’t. As for myself, my own experience of the beam revealed a rather risqué image of a very young Betty Boop. Dr. Trousers, for some reason was making copious notes, in a notepad entitled  “The Dummies Guide for the Industrial Spy.” Ho Hum. The rest of the evening was skilfully obscured by custard and curmudgeon. A merry Christmas to you all.

Snowmans Land

     It is nearly that time of year again, dear reader. Although, not quite yet, is it acceptable to welcome the fir tree into a small corner of your home. One may be attracted by the many splendourous needles that they bring into the home; their little way way of saying  “thank you for a warm place by the fire.” . Lo, there are 12 days in the re-christmas period. Not a mincepie longer, nor a melting snowball less. Yet soon unlucky 13 will meet with the 12 which once was 10. I shall leave the rest to Spunky.

The French Connection

 

Dear reader, in these uncertain times it does seem that very few individuals have the perspicacity to stamp their mark on the hallowed pages of history. Let me take you on a journey beyond the chalk cliffs of this island.

May I introduce you to Herr Franz ‘thirsty’ Reichel. For Reichel had a vision. He believed that he could be the first airborne tailor in history. He was fresh from his recent success at the Paris Exhibition of 1910 – where he became the first man in history to ejaculate across the English Channel. Reichel was drunk on his own success, and determined to capitalise upon this adventure, by producing the first suit with aeronautical aspirations. Reichel spent the next year perfecting his design. Equipped with his double-ended candles, needle, thread and the finest tweed; he worked long into the cold Gallic nights. After months of trial and improvement he was eventually ready to show to the world that there was more to him than his monstrously large testicles.

Come the day, cometh the man. So it was that on a cold February morning in 1912, Reichel ascended the Eiffel Tower. As he reached the summit he unfurled his contraption to an astonished gathering of selected dignitaries. It transpires, from recently disclosed documents, that Herr Reichel promised that the first test would be using a mannequin. This was not to be. Our moustachioed hero’s design of an overcoat with encased parachute was designed for the wearer to gently descend to the ground. We can only speculate at the exact thoughts that may have crossed his mind as he stood there as the historian dipped his quill into the inky depths of history. Posterity, unfortunately, had other plans for young Herr Reichel.

As you can see from the video clip, he seems to have a moment of self-doubt as he stands upon the lips of the precipice. He is said to have died of fright before hitting the ground. Who can tell? Although, French authorities seemed keen to measure the size of the crater that he left, there is no record of the purpose to which this data was put to. His ejaculatory record remains unbroken to this day.

Dreaming of Androids not Sheep

Dear reader, as I was fiddling with my cantankerous wheelie bin this morning I was struck with thoughts of deceit and obfuscation. Twas only the other day that I was discussing the very matter with Dr. Brunel. He is of the opinion that his car is fully automatic. Nay, I cannot agree with this confused opinion. Surely he has his hands to the tiller? A misunderstanding of the term automatic no doubt. I shall set him right in his ways never fear. Though he is a proud one, he is also a confused banana.

Of course we have all been misled a propos the level of robotic technology that we should currently be enjoying. I am surprised that Gordon Brown has not set targets on Robotic Technology.  Science and Innovation Minister,  Professor William Heath Robinson said: “What’s important about Androidhorizons is that we’re inviting anyone and everyone to get involved in the discussions, not only the scientists. We want discussions about science to involve the whole community. Will we all be using Ray-Guns at 80? Or sitting in self-driving cars? Will robots be serving us breakfast? Will our fridges be talking to our shopping trolleys? Will history be a thing of the past?”

The level of robotic technology is frankly a little shabby. Look at this pathetic excuse for an automaton.

The dream of the future was much more along the lines of Robby the Robot. Yes, Jeeves reimagined as a whirring butler, fitted out with replication units, and a baffling internal logic system. The dressmaking skills seemed a little effeminate – but there you go. A dream of sliding doors and hoverboots seemed only around the corner. I still clearly remember our old year 6 teacher, Mrs. Bradbury preparing us for the Age of Leisure. Our every need and whim would be catered for. The main purpose of education then would be to intelligently fill our extensive free time. Still waiting. While I’m still waiting I have 101 chores to do, which I am sure could be fulfilled by Robby. So much for a robotic dystopia, with armies of domestic assistants rising up to overthrow their masters. The only thing the ones we’ve would probably run out of batteries half way through booting up. Ho hum. So much for the G-1-RL Portable Leisure, Exercise and Adventure, Self-Utilizing Responsive Escort (P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E.) robot.

Stuck in an ironing loop again.

Victorian Steampunk

     I probably should reveal a few things that have hitherto, remained latent. I do have a penchant for the days of yore. Not particularly for sentimental reasons; although inevitably there is a modicum of that. It seems perhaps inevitable that an island such as Old Blighty, not emasculated by her (wink) loss of Empire should have a yearning for the former glory.

Mappa Tuesday

     However, the zeitgeist of the day is cheap and cheerless – the land of the miserable shopper. Our £1 lands have replaced our Woolworths. Yes cheap tat and proud of it. Brunel would be spinning in his grave.

     But let me take you back to a land that served a purpose with style. You just have to think of the Crossness pumping station.

     Yes indeed, the Victorians even ensured that their turds* travelled in style, albeit to end up washing up on the sandy shores of bathers at Southend-on-Sea. It is true, however, that their wives and children fared well they could not bear for any of their fine erections to be looked down up.

it's a shitehouse

     Wot ho! It was indeed, as old Charlie would say the best of time & the worst of times. In fact it had a hint of the Curate’s Egg about it, albeit encased in a Faberge suit. It was a time when a gentleman would toss his cape into a geographically inconvenient Dr. Foster, and hang the bill the Chinese laundry man would threaten him with. Exactly why the Chinese crossed half the world to stir steaming tubs of shirts, well, that’s another story….

     It was a time when a gentleman would dress for dinner, and after he had retired to the Smoking Room, (as opposed to sitting on the back porch and hoping an Easterly didn’t send wafts of aromatic Arabian tobacco back into the sitting room for fear of the asthmatic cat having another attack,) and gazing out at the gas lit pea-souper. Conversation would fall on affairs of state, the Empire and, of course the latest invention that one was tinkering with. Yes, for dandyness, etiquette and style aside, it was at least a time when one could have a stab at inventing a unique contraption with out possessing several degrees in advanced Squibullery. A time of crystal phials and shining brass. A time of sparks, whirring engines, and – by God – proper noises. A gentleman could travel from King’s Cross to Edinburgh in a proper mode of transport, a Steam-powered train. The sort of vehicle, that one could well imagine, could at any point leave the tracks and end up Le Voyage dans la lune.

     The Victorian Age was the Age of Invention. The zeitgeist of boundless optimism and achievement, where anything is possible. Of course, you had to be rich enough to benefit from it, but then I’m sure the Great Pyramid wasn’t that impressive if you spent all day shoving tons of granite up a slope all day. As the bard has it, “it’s the rich wot gets the pleasure, and the poor wot gets the pain.”

     Please, give me a little indulgence fair reader of a time when at least you knew where you stood, even if that meant with both feet in raw sewage, dying of typhus. Look at use now; gone is the age of Oak, of Iron, the MFI age is our day. Can you imagine the Swedish selling wood to us, for cripes sake.

     Let me end today’s entry with a few places to visit to recapture that certain style.

Hey Ho. It’s time I should be winding my collection of crystal chronometers.

Junk

Do you ever wonder why you’re always surrounded by Junk. Forever tripping over plastic products, the sole purpose of which is just to fill up pointless drawers and cupboards of despair.

Pointless features; useless upgrades, dreadful extras

 

Job Search…

He doesn't seem overly busy to me

     As you may have noticed, I have been rather inactive on the diary front of late. I would not really make a Pepys, I fear. (Still with the Great Plague and the Fire of London he certainly had more material to get his teeth into, to be fair.) All I have is the imminent destruction of life as we know it (again,) the global collapse of the money lending system, and deciding whether I need to register myself with the Ministry of Nosiness if I open the door to accept a copy of the Daily Mail from the teenage member of Mr. K.W. Patel’s news-emporium (logistics division.) In fact, dear reader, I have been busying myself with assisting a colleague of mine, young Stefan, whom, as you may recall, had just failed to enter the Guinness Book of World Records with his nearly tragic attempt to pass through the digestive tract of a Sperm Whale unassisted. His latest project has a little more merit to it. Indeed, he aims to employ himself in the greatest number of jobs during a 365-and-a-little-bit day period. So far he has stocked his library up with the complete selection of the Dummy Series, printed out WikiPedia, and had a long conversation with Dr. Brunel on the merits of an unpainted window-drip. I have, of course, been facilitating his endeavour to become the new Renaissance man. I am not sure where this particular lifestyle choice is leading him, but surely even Leonardo didn’t do his own shredding.

     So far, he has turned his hand to the following activities of gainful employment. Web-Site Design; Antique Dealer; Chimney Sweep; Chef (I wish that I could embellish, however, there is the unfortunate matter of a court case); Legal Secretary (though technically, this was working for himself, and was more of a quick job to keep the restaurateur in question happy); Structural Architect; Brain-Surgeon; Lollipop Man (although illegally, not having time to fill in the appropriate JM453/23 Lollipop Awareness Declaration Form); Lawyer (see Lollipop Man); Suffragette (I’m not sure this counts really, but hid did gain some unwanted publicity) and today he’s off to try his hand as an X-ray engineer. I did give him a stern lecture about the perils of Röntgen-ray, but to no avail. I think he’s using one of those phonebook pads, with a dialing gadget at the front. He obviously doesn’t use it for said purpose, as he hasn’t got any friends. Indeed if you ever ring him up, after exactly 73 rings of the Graham Bell, he screams “I’ll show you who’s a pretty boy,” and slams down the receiver. This happens every time. Apart from 3.05 a.m. once when he played Old Man River with a collection of unreturned milk bottles.

I believe transvestite fire-eating is no longer on the itineray

     I do, in a sense, admire him. Obviously this would have to be an extra sense to the normal five that we are all hopefully equipped. If you are disabled (or differently if you like – say it how you want, unless you’re mute,) then, tough break, (oops,) although I must inform you that I have suffer debilitating random memory access to my short to medium term memory. If I think of anything really important, I have to immediately tell someone, whatever they are doing, so that I can ask them later on when I have a pen handy. It’s very annoying. Oh, and my showlaces never seem to stay done up for long. Obviously the Sixth Sense is taken, something to do with seeing ghosts. I am probably using the Seventh Sense. I think that we’re safe there. Bergman had the Seals, but I don’t recall a Sense. Well, getting to the point, if there ever was one. Which makes me think of Jesus turning water into wine. He wouldn’t even get his one cathode-ray show these days. If he’d materialised a HD-Ready widescreen TV with hot dutch action, he’d have got a bit more interest in my book. Wine? You couldn’t move for wine in those days – it was virtually the only thing you could get to cause your brain to malfunction. Anyway, I think it’s a pretty good idea to sample as many jobs as possible; at least you might perchance upon one that you like. Anyway I must go now, I’m reading up on The AntiPope for Dummies.

The march of time

     I was enjoying the traditional delights of an English summertime, the other day. I believe “topping up the tan” is the parlance. After I had felt that I had received my optimum melanin level, I bade Mr & Mrs Loompah a fond farewell & vacated the Oranj-o-Tinge, that being the name of my local U.V. emporium. With a slight spring in my step, veins pumping with vitamins of the D variety, my eardrums were assaulted with the tuneless tinkling associated with one of the village’s Crème glacée vendors. The clunky Oranges and Lemons revealed the wagon to belong to Mr. Softee. Had the tones of Yankee Doodle Dandy filled my pinna, it would have signalled his Nemesis, Mr. Whippy. For many a year now, the interlocutors have been circling the square in their Pied-Piperesque sirening of the youth of the parish.

     If you have any other tunes of the cream of ice wagon, that fill your far flung end of the empire, or indeed, could suggest some appropriate humorous tunes please feel free to let me know.
     This moment, with the smell of vanilla mingling with the odour of freshly cut grass, I had a brief Proustesque moment, as I wondered how these tunes had evolved over the years. On the one hand Oranges & Lemons suggests the citrus delights of the summer; whilst Yankee Doodle Dandy reminds me of macaroni cheese. However, this brief reverie was quickly curtailed as my left plate of meat sank into a freshly laid conclusion of a local canine’s digestive tract. Curse Mr. Darbyshire and his uncouth hound – I shall see him on the Heath at some dawn in the not too distant future.

     Still with thoughts of evolution foremost in my mind, I began to muse upon the career of Mr.C.Darwin. Of course, he had an eccentric ancestor’s blood coursing through his Victorian veins. I am, of course, referring to his erstwhile grandfather Erasmus. A curious fish was Mr. Darwin senior, a scientific gentleman, who had the peculiar habit of composing his theories in verse!

“ The Giant-power from earth’s remotest caves

Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves;

Each cavern’d rock and hidden den explores,

Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores.

Next, in close cells of ribbed oak confined,

Gale after gale, he crowds the struggling wind:

The imprison’d storms through brazen nostrils roar,

Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore.

Here high in air the rising stream he pours

To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers;

Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils,

And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.

There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl

On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl,

Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind,

Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind.”

     Imagine, our very own Stephen Hawking composing his latest musings, in the manner of the Bard.    

One is not amused

The first meeting between an Orangutang and a Queen of the Empire developed as follows. On meeting Queen Victoria in 1842, Jenny the Orangutang (for that was her name) was reported in the Times of London to have described the monarch in questions as. “frightfully, painfully and disagreeably human.” The very next morning, the Zoo-keeper, Mr. J. Morris, found Jenny’s cage with the bars bent asunder; the cage bare apart from a slightly bruised banana, and a solitary bowler hat. Several astute commentators were later to make a connection between this mystery and the subsequent murders of Mademoiselle L’espanaye and her daughter in the Rue Morgue, Paris, later that year. On this line, I read with some interest, recently, the it is thought that Neanderthal man are now thought to be gingers – and they’re extinct.

The perils of foreign journalism

     With this grotesque image, fresh in my mind, I began to think about, down which stream the flow of evolution would take us next. Now that many of us, across the Empire are living in metropolises, overwhelming conurbations of the modern age, bringing with them fear, alienation & schizophrenia. A lump at the rear of the cranium, still yearns for the humble communities of village life (bar Mr. P. McGooghan, obviously.) Now, many of us, with the steam-powered Babbage Engine, are free to create our virtual villages with VisageTome, MyVacuum and the like, of a much more Amish-size. It could, and has been argued, that many of the friends that we invite, into our hermetic villages, are not really friends at all. So, it has always been the case in the pastoral village. Yet, this is a more modern village, with no strict hierarchy and no real laws. How so, I hear you cry, does one gain kudos in such an environment free from the curtailments of property and money. At last, a vehicle for social experimentation is at out fingertips. Of course, many, indeed most merely see it as a forum to express to out community some drab commentary about their squalid little lives. To say that you are doing some paperwork (read Status not Status Quo,) is the pastoral equivalent of saying “Oi am watchin’ moi sheep fer a little bit, todoy.” Some will actually vote on such banalities. This is akin to raising your pitchfork in the village square. This non-verbal communication is even more pitiful. Reader, there is a very real opportunity, to experiment with how you can seize influence in your virtual communities, bereft of heritage and upbringing. I despair.

On a more uplifting note; of late, there is growing evidence that people are prepared to forgo the lures of property and wealth for the personal rewards of status and reputation, in providing their toil for free in such ventures as Wikipedia, Linux Fedora and Digg, to name but a few. Such individuals are prepared for the common “good.” Although, we always have to bear in mind one critique of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, that such philosophy can lead to the dictatorship of the majority, it is a promising sign of the future of online collaborations.

I was still pondering, the future path of evolution, when I looked down upon my fork. Dear reader, one of the prongs was slightly askew. We still await the principles of evolution to be applied to inanimate objects. What I really need is a Darwin box, in which we can place our imperfect objects, let them incubate for a week, select the “best fit” baby object, then pop it into a time dilator, to save all the pesky hanging around. This theory will need to be developed, but for now, my hedge needs trimming.

 

Next Week: The New Economic Theory of Noel Edmonds.

On Leaving School

Part of an occasional series of guidance lectures.

     The young man has the distinct advantage in the world of work, as he is necessarily, more mature due to the fact that his brain is significantly larger than his female counterpart. He has plenty of room for remembering important facts, and imperial measurements, which will ,of necessity, require 86% of his impressive cranium. In the real world he faces the challenges of a day occupied with a succession of relatively tedious and uninteresting duties. To the dull boy this will be more grist to the mill, and thus life in the office will be less dangerous for the dullard. An intelligent boy, contra wise, has the burden of curiosity on his back. The intelligent boy can become a danger to himself, and the wise Manager will frequently ensure that he moves from department to department on a regular basis, to guard against this Achilles’ heel. In the final analysis, the best route to success depends on the mental ability of the individual.

     In order, young master, that you can have the most capital adventure in the world of work. First you must determine which of the mental modes best suits your position. There are those so dull as not to know that their work is dull, and they are content with their lot. The dull boy is best suited to life as a Civil Servant, Bank Manager, Bomb Disposal Expert or Minister of Disease. Then there are those of keener understanding, who see that they are engaged upon work that of itself is hopeless and dull, but have not quite enough strength of mind to look beyond, and so they lose hope. This is the sure route to middle management. They know, but see “as in a glass darkly.” The lad of true intelligence, the blight upon any capitalist enterprise, drifts through life in a hopeless haze of pessimism. Often to found pottering around the office muttering “Oh, what is the point” under his breath. On no account young man should you associate such anarchists. Such individuals are easy to spot. They will often start conversations about subjects clearly unassociated with the task in hand. Common examples are the works of Plato; the merits of Spartan society; what your particular philosophy of shoes may be; and more tellingly if you know how to make a bomb. These are clear distraction techniques. They are the type that will sit in instructional lectures, doodling women in bizarre positions, and curiously, hedgehogs on stilts. Only sparingly approach these denizens of the workplace, and even then only to find the solution to a problem.

It's a short, but a merry life at the workhouse

     On your first day at work, always ensure that your apparel is immaculate. I strongly suggest Arkwright, double reinforced Geronimo Trousers, a quadruple breasted straight-jacket, Tom Thumb Patent Cork boots, an ultra-marine tortoiseshell shirt and a stovepipe hat. I leave the fine details to your own taste. Do not forget that first impressions count. No one will bother two whits if you turn up for the rest of the year wearing a clown’s outfit, and an extravagant codpiece, from which you dangle a parsnip. You will then be subjected to a tour of your workplace. This is completely ordinary and nothing to worry about, unless of course the tour ends at the fire exit. You will be introduced to almost everyone you meet. Ensure that you shake their hand politely, but not too firmly (this will be remembered and could be the cause of interdepartmental bollock-baiting in the months to come.) On no account attempt to remember anyone’s name. You will never, ever see any of these people again, apart from social occasions (which you will avoid, for fear of extreme jetsam and the dangers of underhanded flotsam- be advised.) The next step in your voyage extraordinaire will be a huge tower of paperwork. This is to ensure that you make no attempt to extract a single penny from your employer. They see you as a way of earning money, and care not a two-penny for you. You will receive training on how to correctly file balloons, blow up elephants without busting a hernia, and holding a pen in the correct, ergonomic fashion, thus reducing any back strain. Again, this is perfectly normal. Following this you will be instructed to endure a six-hour portrait painting, for company files. There is no reason for this, as it will never be referred to. It keeps many a portrait painter in work, so don’t knock it.

Next week: The pros and cons of a Photo reproduction device in the workplace.

Apologies to SIR CHARLES CHEERS WAKEFIELD