Monday, February 21, 2005
Generals And Majors
Tony Blair won’t be able to blame his failings on the previous Conservative government forever. Sooner or later he’ll have to stand up and take responsibility for his own spreadsheets and so should Stella.
My goodness, they’re in a state. There are spreadsheets for this project and that sub-project, and intermediary spreadsheets to act as interfaces from one to the other, and spreadsheets for budgeting and spreadsheets for her social diary and spreadsheets that track the FTSE 100 and her Celebdaq index and the rising fortunes of her Fantasy Hairdressing Team. It’s chaos.
On Friday, she tried to put the blame on Neil, the previous team leader, which is a bit off because she’s had plenty of time to sort things out and besides, Neil is a certified lunatic for whom we make allowances.
But apart from trying to fathom the unfathomable, I’ve rather enjoyed being boss today. People sidle up to you for advice and you tell them any old tosh and they go away happy. It’s as if I’ve become infallible.
“There’s a problem at Cabbage Brothers. Nobody can log in.”
“Undribble the simile plugs, count to ten and watch out for a metaphysical surge. If that doesn’t work, reset the congrommelator.”
“Thanks Tim. How do you know that?”
“I was in the cadets.”
And if it still doesn’t work - which it won’t - they assume they’ve done something wrong and feel too awkward to come back and ask again.
All day I’ve been making furtive guerrilla raids on the stationary cupboard - check out these puppies, they’re life affirming - and tomorrow we’re going out on manoeuvres. I’ve got my eye on colonising the help desk.
My goodness, they’re in a state. There are spreadsheets for this project and that sub-project, and intermediary spreadsheets to act as interfaces from one to the other, and spreadsheets for budgeting and spreadsheets for her social diary and spreadsheets that track the FTSE 100 and her Celebdaq index and the rising fortunes of her Fantasy Hairdressing Team. It’s chaos.
On Friday, she tried to put the blame on Neil, the previous team leader, which is a bit off because she’s had plenty of time to sort things out and besides, Neil is a certified lunatic for whom we make allowances.
But apart from trying to fathom the unfathomable, I’ve rather enjoyed being boss today. People sidle up to you for advice and you tell them any old tosh and they go away happy. It’s as if I’ve become infallible.
“There’s a problem at Cabbage Brothers. Nobody can log in.”
“Undribble the simile plugs, count to ten and watch out for a metaphysical surge. If that doesn’t work, reset the congrommelator.”
“Thanks Tim. How do you know that?”
“I was in the cadets.”
And if it still doesn’t work - which it won’t - they assume they’ve done something wrong and feel too awkward to come back and ask again.
All day I’ve been making furtive guerrilla raids on the stationary cupboard - check out these puppies, they’re life affirming - and tomorrow we’re going out on manoeuvres. I’ve got my eye on colonising the help desk.
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