2006-10-26
Go Mr Toad... GO!
Finally� sitting on the express train running from Victoria Station to Gatwick Airport. I�m 3 hours into a 18 hour journey (not counting a brief stop at a hotel at the airport for some rest), and it�s already an adventure� but, would I want it any other way? Nooooooooo
I�m not even sure where to start. So� lets start with what has transpired this last week. In an effort to prevent injury to anyone by causing them to fall asleep, thereby falling forward and walking around the next day with the ever-delightful YTREWQ plastered on their forehead above their left eyebrow, I�ll do my best to keep it mercifully short. OK, I was kidding� I�m going to write my little ass off. But hey, this IS my place, ya know?
My return to England, scheduled in 8 days (yup� 8 days� and I work or travel every one of those 8 days) is NOT a sure thing. Seems the client is professing to be in a bit of a cash flow problem. I can see why (the idiot� but that�s a whole different story). So he has until the Friday before I leave (I�m leaving Saturday morning) to wire us $65K. I don�t think he�ll do it, and I�ll be suddenly not going anywhere. Oh well� maybe once he realizes that yes, we will pull the plug on his ass, he'll wake up and smell the coffee... or tea.
The week started with a carnival ride. My compatriot and I jumped into a taxi first thing Monday morning with every intention of heading directly to the plant (smiles.. �every intention�� like that phrase? it�s building anticipation, which is a writer�s trick� there�s a word for that in writer�s circles, but they know I�m a bad amateur, so only send me the odd email and hint that it�s there). We handed the driver our written address for the plant, because there is no way you can actually say it without practicing for days and days. It requires 4 full lines just to write it down, and that doesn�t include the county (which is like our state). The address goes something like �pompous-company-name House, some-name-that-comes-from-Shakespeare Road Unit #20, some-strawberry-fields-esque Industrial Park, some-town-name-that-you�ve-sorta-heard-about-in-history-class-or-a-PBS-station�� whew. I think they use addresses like this to bring themselves back to the glorious days of Barons and titled-landholders that they apparently miss dearly, although they fervently deny it while reading about the latest gossip of some far-flung relative of the Royals.
As the driver reads the epic tome that is the address, he looks back at us and asks �are you sure Mates?�. Well, duh! Of course we�re sure� the very same tome is recorded in our Outlook address book! Why? Is there a problem? Is it not safe to exit the taxi there? �Oh, it�s safe enough� but it�s 45 minutes away easy, is the only reason I�m asking�.
45 minutes? Our compatriot, who recommended this hotel to us, was staying a 45 minutes taxi ride away from the plant? Was he nuts??? No�. (another anticipation building technique� I really need to see if there is a word for that, or if they are in fact pulling a fast one on the mere novice� kind of like when we would get someone new into the data center way back when and drop a reel of tape on the floor� and send the newbie off to find the �bit� broom to recover the lost data that fell off).
Off we go� and as we travel further and further, our cabbie is getting more and more loose. Talking up a storm. By the time we�re nearing the address (notice I didn�t say destination� that would have been a moment of anticipation building, but was probably too vague for anyone other than me to get� so doesn�t really count), he�s ready to take us both out one night and show his new-found friends from America how a real Brit puts away his body weight in equally divided portions of ale, bitters and single-malt scotch. Well� cheers then!
We finally pull up at the address after a full hour of driving� and the name above the door is wrong. A quick jaunt inside and we discover our client USED to be here� a few months ago. Back to the taxi� whip out the laptop and hope the phone number is still good�. And neither of our phones is working yet.
To the rescue is our intrepid cabbie. He whips out his phone and makes the call� and once connected, hands the phone over to my compatriot. At this point, by him giving us the use of his phone� and per some tradition who�s exact verbiage has been forever lost when it was given to the Knights Templar for safekeeping just BEFORE they decided to mount the Crusades (timing is everything, don�t ya know), he is now our Friend, with a capital F. So much so, that he jumps out of the taxi at the sight of me lighting up a smoke and practically begs me to take one if his instead. What can I do? We swap smokes, light up, and I�m worried that this look on his face is really being caused by a quickly developing diabetic coma� but then I just realized he was happy.
I suppose I could be happy about all that� as far as Male Bonding rituals go, it�s much easier than the American counterpart where you sit in front of a roaring campfire, drink yourself silly until you decide the best course of action to take is to strip, smear mud on yourself and make strange noises� that�s always so embarrassing the next day.
So� we find that the plant is� 10 minutes from the hotel we stared at. Score for the cabbie� we end up paying him for his return trip. The cost of said carnival ride? �40.00� about $75.00.
I see eyelids growing heavy� will spew more later :)
t85225 at 9:55 p.m.
|