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Saturday, October 29, 2011

Through the looking glass....

Holy crud! (as we used to say back in the village) what an arse of a week that's been, and it's not over yet.

Actually, now I think about it, there's probably a whole blogpost about "what we used to say back in the village", but we'll have that on another day. Today being a Saturday should be a chance to relax and recharge somewhat, in preparation for another week of hell from Monday - but alas - not a bit of it.

Sadly the work that Pooh and I have been battling with is now getting some "help" from some members of the "executive" team and as we all know this will require treading very carefully through the minefield of the executive view of the 100 acre wood. Help is something that is always welcome, whereas on the other hand "help" is more often a hindrance that one could do without. It's also "offered" - which in non-executive english translates to, mandated. Oh what fun.

Pooh, while claiming to be a bear of little brain, is actually a darn sight cleverer than he lets on. He understands the stuff we're trying to do in a non-technical yet deeply understood sort of way. Or at least that's how it appears to outsiders - personally I think he's an expert bull-sh1tter, and that my friends means he's very VERY good at his job. I'm sure he'd agree. For my part, BS isn't something I'm particularly blessed with and sadly I'm a bit of a crap liar too, so if you want it straight without the bolotics, I'm your man.

Pooh also isn't one to "suffer fools gladly" as the saying goes and I believe that one of the execs may have read between the lines of deafening silence on a call on Friday and got that message loud and clear. It only takes 10 minutes of an SMI's time to wind him up - and some more "talented" SMI's can do it with the words "Hello Pooh". But I digress.

It's probably just as well, for the sake of his own sanity that he's not here for the coming week, so our offer of "help" therefore falls to me to accept. On the plus side, I have spent some rather large chunks of my career "managing" executives although I am a little out of practice. Pooh's advice - before he slipped out the back wearing Nike's and moving at a speed not dissimilar to that of a slightly older, shorter and more countrified version of Usain Bolt - was treat it as a training course or a test. Not a bad stab at taking the sting out of it I thought.

My approach will be to shut up and listen, nod sagely at appropriate moments and to politely ignore the sort of comments that would turn Pooh into a very Shouty bear with a pointy stick. I can assure you, that is not someone you would like to meet up a dark alley unless you were meeting him to team up and start a fight with an unruly mob of mobsters who considered themselves to be "tooled up and well hard".

So it's with these thoughts in mind that I have to do some bloody work on the weekend.

But first there are more important things to attend to. Lunch with Mr Ball senior and various other members of the Ball clan and extensions. After all executive buffoonery and the suchlike will come and go and come round again, but you only get one Dad.

Actually I think the saying goes something like "1000 dads but only one father" or is it "a 1000 mums but only one mummy"? Ah, whatever - you get my drift I'm sure.

In short, a fairly leisurely and drawn out pub lunch with much frivolity will see me and Mrs G through to the early evening by which time I'll be prepared to prepare for my visit up to "that London" first thing on Monday morning. I think I'll have the steak - famous for being the last meal of the condemend man.

Daughter's working overtime - which is a great shame because I know Mr Ball senior enjoys her stories of current police work having been in "the job" himself for many many moons, but with any luck they'll arrive just before she sets off so at least they'll get to say hello. Sister ball is also making a long overdue appearance. Always great to see her and hear about what she's been up to while in hiding since the last time she appeared.

Oh yes, and I mustn't forget to nip to the station to pick up my tickets. 170 of our British pounds just so that a bloke in a suit can rant about some other blokes in suits at a bloke without a tie (but I will be in a suit) about a guess that the othe blokes made that was "a bit short of the mark" and then end up deciding that it's a battle that will be list even though we're still in the war.

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Ah well - its nice to have a day out. Such fun!



This post originally appeared here: Posterous
 

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