Misdirection

My girlfriend often says I'm not very romantic, but last night I said something that really surprised her.
BOO!

Ahem. Today I didn't get a chance to perform at open mike - because the mike didn't work. This was probably a good thing, because I had no new (or even old) material to trot out, and I'd had a fairly rubbish day. The impending disaster of a project that I'm working on now seems to be flying towards me at a hundred miles an hour, and my choice of a terrible delivery platform is going to probably take the top off my head. I knew it was a bad idea to do anything serious in Access, but I was hoping that it would at least last long enough for me to be able to quit and get a job somewhere else. But no. The thing self-destructed today, 48 hours before it has to be demonstrated in full working order to the grown-ups.

I suppose that does give us 48 hours to rebuild the thing, but it's a horrendous mess of bodges and last-minute fixes already, from a vague and uncertain specification where the only consistent thing is that the requirements are continually inconsistent. I'm glad I've been doing this for ten years. I really am. I can't imagine any way in which this might be interpreted as a waste of my life. No. Nobody could construe this lurch from failure to failure to be a waste. What a shambles.

But enough of computers.

On the positive side, another event that might provide material occurred this evening. Walking down to the MTR entrance, Chris and I were stuck behind a ponderous, middle aged Chinese guy, walking along with a lit cigarette in his hand. He didn't seem to be smoking it, just carrying it along, leaving a cloud of smoke and dots of ash in his wake. Where we were walking.

Neither of us like the smell of smoke, so we try to overtake him. And as soon as we move to go round the side of him, the blighter only ups his pace. We speed up, he speeds up. Soon we're dodging round barricades and lamp-posts, ducking around extraneous pieces of street furniture, while this fifty-year old nicotine artist is jogging along and not letting us get past. I'd like to make a reference to Petain here ('ils ne passeront pas') but it's not really the time. I'm too worn out, and I'm too puzzled. I mean, how can he be going so fast? It's not like smokers are usually known for their athletic abilities.