Thursday, September 18, 2008

Kimono My House 

Today we finally got to the bottom of the performance issues at Chorley Trousers.
It turns out Mike has been secretly using their production database server for his own private purposes. While they’ve been busy manufacturing hard wearing, deep pocketed trouserware for the Banking Sector, Mike’s little program has been number crunching the horses.
“He’s got the runners and riders here for every race card since the Queen Mother was a lad,” said Terry.
“Good for him,” replied Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader. “It’s about time one of you lot showed a little enterprise.”

Suspicions were aroused when the ladies in the factory were trying to print out a despatch note, and instead of reading “100 pinstripe, padded gusset ; Wreckless Investments, Canary Wharf, London,” the note simply stated “Kimono My House, Pontefract 2.30. Likes it soft.”

He’d have got away with it too if Neil, my former team leader, hadn’t screwed up the time on the server, effectively turning night into day and vice versa.
Not originally from this planet, Neil frequently has difficulties with our 24 hour Earth clock, and we’ve become used to his cock ups with hilarious consequences in this area: the time he scheduled a load of automated telemarketing machines to wake people up at four in the morning with a cheery “Congratulations! You’ve just won a dream fortnight in Pennsylvania!”; the unfortunate incident we don’t talk about with the Air Traffic Control software.

Mike’s script is designed to perform its processor-intensive calculations between three and five in the morning, when nobody would be any the wiser and no harm be done. Not in the afternoon, when the workforce of Chorley Trousers should have been loading up the distribution vans, but were instead grinding to a standstill and drumming their fingers in frustration.

“No wonder he can afford to go on holiday to them Thingy Islands for a month,” said Terry, with more than a hint of jealousy. “What are they called?”
“Balearics,” said Ivan the Terribly Thorough, popping up out of nowhere with a bucket of soapy water and a stiff brush.
“No, it’s true. Bastard’s gone for a whole sodding month,” Terry replied and Stella, who’d spent the previous hour on the phone with William Hill, nodded sagely to confirm this to be so.

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