Weevilstepmother

Tallboy was at the hospital again yesterday, this time for conductive nerve tests to find out what is causing the numbness and pins and needles in his arm. He didn't know quite what to expect. Which is a good job, really.

The tests were administered by a technician, who hooked him up to a variable power supply by means of loops of wire around his fingers. Different voltages and amperages were applied, and the response measured by another fancy bit of kit. Tallboy started off by chatting interestedly, asking about the levels of charge and how the kit worked. Once the test was underway, though, he shut up.

When the current was applied, his hand jerked sharply. And it hurt. Quite a lot. Repeated doses of current made the process extremely unpleasant. At one point the technician was trying to hook a loop round Tallboy's thumb. "Relax your thumb, please," he said. "Not likely," thought the thumb, "if I do that, you'll shock me again!"

According to the technician, the best patients are women. The second worst are young men, who moan and complain, and the very worst of all are electricians, who spend the whole of their professional life trying to avoid electric shocks. Once the technician starts hooking them up, they realise what's happening and scarper. Seriously.

I'm going to scarper too. I don't get very much free time any more, and what free time I have I need to focus on family and studying. I've really enjoyed it here, but it's time to go. Thanks to all of you for reading.

I'll leave you with the news that Tallboy has at last managed to wink his left eye at me...

The Ex isn't a good person to know at the moment. Things are happening to him and his colleagues - who will be next?

First, one of his co-workers was woken in the early hours of the morning one day last week by his dog, alerting him to a fire. The seat of the blaze was in the spare bedroom - a TV left on standby had gone up in smoke. They were lucky to be woken when they were, and they avoided the worst effects of smoke inhalation and all got out safe and sound. Their house will be uninhabitable for the next month, poor things.

Then, last night, another colleague was woken by his wife who had been taken very poorly. She was rushed to hospital in an ambulance, where she produced a baby, much to both of their surprise. Now, I used to be very skeptical of these 'and then I had a baby out of nowhere" stories. I couldn't believe that it was possible to carry a baby to term without realising it. Till my younger stepsister did exactly that a decade ago. I'll tell you that one another time. In this case, however, it was a 45 year old mother of three who produced.

The thing is, the husband apparently told everyone at work about his operation some time ago. A vasectomy. So either it didn't work (and I can see that if she believed she couldn't be pregnant she may have attributed the symptoms to some other cause), or there are some uncomfortable questions to be answered in that household.

Finally, tonight, the Ex rang to say that they had all been summoned to a meeting to be told that in six months' time their work will probably be done at a fraction of the cost by Eastern Europeans. Throughout his time there, he has always said that he would welcome redundancy with open arms. Having racked up just over one score years, he wouldn't do too badly for a redundancy payment, and he has always found his job bothersome - though not bothersome enough, I should say, that he has sought employment elsewhere. Now that the crunch may be coming, he's not so sure it's such an attractive proposition.

Anyway, as my old gran always said (and she was right), it all turns out right in the end...

Firstly, will the person who arrived here by searching for Vauxhall Zafira bad egg smell please not do it again. Thank you. Normal blog service will now be resumed.

This afternoon I found myself in one of the computer suites on the other side of the school. I was searching for a rogue PC which we knew existed, but not where. I found it, by chance, in the third room I searched. While there, I found another poorly PC and started to try to fix them both. As I worked, I became aware of a presence, and before I knew what was happening, I was shaking hands with an enthusiastic head of subject with a firm and vigorous handshake. "While you're here," he said, keeping himself between me and the door, "there are one or two problems. Here, we've written them down." My workload in that room was sextupled at a stroke.

I flitted from PC to PC like a hummingbird sipping nectar from flower after flower. Except I was much larger, and a thousand percent less graceful. As I flitted, the bell rang, and suddenly the room was explosively full of Year 8s. They were being left to get on with work and there was a background level of talking throughout the room. The following conversations ensued:

Year 8 Girl: (with earnest expression and sense of urgent quest for knowledge in her voice) Miss! Miss!
Weevil: (smiling at the novelty of the nomenclature) Yes?
Year 8 Girl: Are you teaching us today?
Weevil: No.
Year 8 Girl: Are you helping teach us today?
Weevil: No.
Year 8 Girl: What are you doing here then?
Weevil: (with expansive gesture designed to indicate huge numbers of computers requiring attention) I'’m looking after the computers.
Year 8 Girl: (silent attempt to understand this statement. Blank face indicating incomprehension and/or disbelief)
Weevil: I'’m Baldrick's’ new assistant.
Year 8 Girl: (remaining silent while this information is digested)

I turned to get on with my ministrations and was bending down to take my seat when I was addressed again, by another student:

Year 8 Boy: Miss! Miss!
Weevil: (becoming a little exasperated but still smiling) Yes?
Year 8 Boy: (points at my chest) I've got one of those!
Weevil: (looks down, then looks up, puzzled)
Year 8 Boy: How big is yours, Miss?
Weevil: (looks down again, lost for words)
Year 8 Boy: (brandishing USB Flash Drive) See, Miss! Mine's 256MB!
Year 8 Girl: What's that?
Weevil: A memory stick.
Year 8 Girl: What's that?
Weevil: It's like a bit of memory that you can carry round with you.
Year 8 Girl: What for?
Weevil: For storing stuff on. (sits down decisively to get on with work)

There is a pause while I attempt the get the PC to cooperate. Then I hear an excited and insistent voice from behind me:

Year 8 Girl: Miss! Miss! It's really soon 'til Christmas, Miss!

I conceded defeat, and to a chorus of "Goodbye Miss!" I left the classroom with a smile on my face, resolving to return after half past three.

I've never really had a job yet where there has been an initiation to go through. I've just pretty much turned up and got on with it. One day last week, Baldrick looked evilly at his Boss, and said, "Since Weevil's so new, we should maybe send her to the caretaker's office for a long weight?" I'm afraid I'm way too long in the tooth to fall for that one.

There was one callout, though, which made me think I'd been set up. There was a call from one of the classrooms. "The screen's just blue and I can't do anything with it." I was dispatched to sort it. On my way over I muttered to myself. There were so many things which could be wrong with it, where to start? I found the classroom, took a deep breath, and walked in. The teacher turned as I entered, relief written large all over her face. Inside I quailed, praying that her faith in me wouldn't be misplaced.

There was indeed nothing on the screen, so I bought time for thought by checking that all the leads were securely sited, then hitting the reset button and watching the boot. It stalled early on in the sequence for no apparent reason. I stabbed randomly at the keyboard, and to my delight the boot resumed, right through to the logon screen. I tried to log on but there was no response to my keypresses. I reset once more, and it all followed the same pattern.

I noticed that no light appeared on the keyboard to confirm a press of the Caps Lock key and wondered if the keyboard was faulty. I decided to try another one in its place to see if that would work. As I bent to unplug the recalcitrant keyboard, I noticed that yes, the lead was securely in the socket, but that it was the mouse socket. This explained things. A quick swap and there was a happy teacher and a relieved techie. On my return to the office, I challenged Baldrick. "You set that up, didn't you?" "Me?" he responded with an accompanying butter-wouldn't-melt face, "Set what up?" I'm still not convinced one way or the other...

Tallboy hasn't been so lucky. He came home one day last week reeking of oil. "I got sprayed," he said sheepishly. Later, he told me the full story. He had been reassembling a pump, and wasn't sure which way round the motor should go. He checked with a colleague, who suggested that he stick it back in, hook it up to the supply, switch it on then off straightaway, and this would show if the motor was the right way round. This he prepared to do, and just before he threw the switch, the colleague poured oil down the spout of the pump.

Tallboy hit the on button, then immediately switched off but the motor was spinning fast and ejected a stream of oil at high velocity. All over him. And the ceiling. When they stopped laughing, his colleagues told him that he'd been too slow in switching it off, but he is sure that he couldn't have done it any quicker. His sneaking suspicion is that this is what they do to the new boy, green about the ears. He can't wait for someone new to start...

I have always loved fireworks. The excitement, the novelty, the rarity, the noise, the colours. Wrapping up warm on a cold November evening, woolly socks and welly boots, sausages (inna bun) and toffee apples. The Sun has never liked them (fireworks that is, not toffee apples), fearing the booming and the sharp reports, the sudden bursts of light. The only time he saw a display through from beginning to end was the very first one of his life; he was four weeks old, strapped to his father's chest in a soft little baby carrier, and wrapped snugly with his father's coat buttoned around him. He slept from beginning to end, not stirring once in his cozy cocoon.

So, at Weevil Mansions, the firework lovers stand in the garden oohing and ahhing. The firework loathers retreat to their rooms and play music or DVDs to distract them. Poppy and any number between one and three of her boys come over, and we make an evening of it. This year we bought a selection box which had the added bonus of five huge rockets and a 'Dancing Chameleons' Cake free. Bargain.

In a stunning display of preparation and organisation, Tallboy and I ran around at the last minute, preparing food, looking for torches, filling a bucket with the contents of a used Growbag (we couldn't find any sand), dragging benches to their allotted positions and generally doing the headless chicken thing. Poppy turned up with Beyblade Boy and Thomas Fiend, both in states of high excitement. The Junior Nuts also appeared at the front door, and suddenly we had a houseful. Some of them scampered up to keep the Sun company in his room, the rest of us piled outside eagerly.

First we saw off the contents of the selection box. The Catherine Wheel was brilliant, though perhaps next year we might choose a location slightly further from the pond. The newts must have thought they were on an acid trip. The other fireworks varied from stunning to utter pants but we kept up the oohs and ahhs all the same. We then turned to the rockets. They were huge, three feet long or more, and rejoiced in the name 'Black Mamba'. Well with a name like that, we could only have high expectations of them - but they surpassed even these. They whooshed off at such a pace, and went so high, and exploded in such gorgeous coruscating stages that we were spellbound and exhilarated. The finale was the Chameleons' turn to shine, and with an echoing fusillade the display was over. For once we felt that the money that had just gone up in smoke had been well spent...

The other high point of our annual Bonfire Night celebrations was the sweepstake based on the antics next door at the Shouty Neighbours. Sadly the shouting has affected their eyesight, as they uniformly launch all their fireworks from six feet down their back path, even the ones requiring to be 25 metres away from people and houses. Last year they managed to launch a particularly vicious one onto my roof. Oh, how I laughed.

The set up is always the same - the family hide in the darkened back room, watching behind two layers of glass. Neanderthal Son-in-Law No. 1 has the job of setting off the fireworks, which he does with consummate skill by the simple expedient of having a fag burning from the corner of his mouth at all times. Selecting, handling, setting and finally lighting the firework - always with that dangling fag. Hence the sweepstake. How many fireworks will he have launched successfully before the ambulance is called?

Well, that's the first week over, and it's been a blast. Five o'clock has arrived surprisingly fast each day, and there has been a host of different tasks to get my head round, some more successfully than others...

I've really enjoyed it, though being called 'Miss' still seems unfamiliar and slightly disconcerting. "Morning Miss!" says a little voice as you wander down the corridor first thing. "Excuse me, Miss, I've forgotten my password," says an apologetic voice from the doorway of the office. It takes a moment to register that it's me they're addressing.

The Boss and I are getting more used to each other now, and I'm feeling much more at home in our little office. He's very supportive, happy to answer what must seem to him to be idiotic questions, understands that I don't have loads of experience, but expects me to get up to speed on stuff too. I've got a lot of time for him. In my quieter moments this week I've been racking my brains to come up with a suitable nickname for him, then on Thursday he gifted it to me. "I see myself as a Baldrick kind of character," he was telling me. "Aha!" I thought to myself. "That'll do!" He also described himself earlier in the week as a Mr Potato Head, but to be honest that was just too many keystrokes.

There are all manner of kids who hang around the network office at break times, a little enclave of geeks and those who aspire to geekery. A couple of the sixth-formers are actually paid to help out with odd jobs a couple of hours after school some nights. They're good lads with a great attitude and very easy to get on with. I've been grappling with nicknames for them too, and achieved success on Tuesday night when I caught the second half of a comedy programme on Radio 4 while Tallboy was showering and shaving at bedtime.

The programme was called Giles Wemmbley-Hogg Goes Off. It was about a student backpacking in Africa, who gets involved in an effort to send a group of giraffes to pastures new. "Come on, then!" he cries. "Let's round these lanky herberts up!" I don't know why, but this struck me as hugely amusing, so please extend your mental map of the characters in my life by two - Lanky Herbert One and Lanky Herbert Two.

Firstly, exciting news - I now have a name for the Boss! Tune in tomorrow when all will be revealed.

Secondly, if you've not yet tried to keep the tiddly German upright on his way back from the pub, see the comments to yesterday's post - thanks, Anonymous :)

Thirdly, this week's Timewaster. If you found Reverse as infuriating and well-made as I did, then you should like its successor.

The idea is to transfer the halo from electron to electron as they orbit the atom's nucleus. Click the nucleus to attempt the transfer - but only when the electrons are at their closest point, or the transfer will fail. Watch out too for the pesky red ones, which will ping the halo back to the beginning if they come into contact with it.

Things get progressively more difficult over time, and I foundered when the atoms started moving round the screen.

The nice thing about this game is that you get a password if you successfully complete a level, which means you can come back to it later without having to start from the beginning again. If you remember to write down your password, that is...

Electron Microscopes at the ready, here we go with Nucleus.

I'm desperately trying to learn names and faces at school. There are so many, so transiently introduced, that my head is spinning. And I'm not that good at remembering people to start off with.

I've met one chap I won't forget. Probably because of his eyebrows. It's possible they have their own postcode. Then there was the teacher I met in her classroom to discuss her technology requirements. As I left with the Boss's Boss, I asked, "Who was that?" Erm, he said. Mrs Erm. When we got back to the office, he checked the staff list, then thrust it at me, indicating a name with his finger. "How do you pronounce that?" I enquired. "That's why I can never remember her name," he replied with a rueful grin.

The Boss and I share an office next to the Cupboard of Doom. The window overlooks one of the main outside thoroughfares of the school, crazily busy during breaks and lesson changes, spookily deserted at other times. Often I will see a lone teacher striding across purposefully. Sometimes there will be a gaggle of science technicians, never in groups of less than two, one of them always carrying a mug. This afternoon I spotted an unidentified teacher. "Who's that?" "Science teacher," came the response from the Boss. "Dunno his name. I did shoot him once, though." I turned to face him, my eyebrows attempting to migrate to the top of my head in an effort to look at incredulous as possible. "Paintballing," he admitted. "Terrific fun," he added, with a devilish glint in his eye.

Today, as every day thus far, I have looked out on grey clouds, and little streaks of rain on the window. "It always bloody rains here," I moaned to the Boss. "Yep," he agreed, "since _you_ got here." Meh.

Didn't see much of the CofD today, apart from a quick minute while I refilled the coffee machine secreted in the corner of shelf 3. I did however notice that the Boss's Boss was very appreciative of my efforts at clearing space. It meant he could get his pushbike in there with ease. Still, that explains the shirts, ties, shoes and towel...

Today I have been variously trotting around with printers and monitors slung casually over my shoulder, screaming "Don't shut it!" from 50 metres' distance at a poor unsuspecting new teacher who was pulling shut a door which I knew I would be unable to persuade open with my bum (hands full of heavy monitor), rebuilding machines, and contemplating with some trepidation an inventory of the entire stock of hardware. We're talking hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of items here. Though I will know every inch of school by the time I've finished. In about 2006.

When I got home, Tallboy and I went for a nice long walk to make sure we meet our steps target. 15,939 today, not too bad. We called in at the Ex's to see the Sun, whom I otherwise wouldn't have seen today, as he is having a dad week this week. Normally I'd have been at home to pick him up from school and spend some time with him till his dad picked him up after work, but this has all changed with the new job. I hope he remembers who I am...

Anyway, while we were on our way to the Ex's, bearing gifts of toilet and kitchen roll middles (for Cubs, they're doing some modelling or something tomorrow night), we found ourselves striding along a badly-lit stretch of road. A cat, disturbed by another walker on the other side of the road, shot out, streaked across the tarmac, saw us, hesitated, and finally made a run for it seconds before a small hatchback inexorably occupied the space it had been standing in.

As we breathed a sigh of relief, we became aware of a strange sound behind us. Swishhhhh, swishhhh, swishhhh, swishhhh. The sound was rapid, rhythmic, and getting closer. Suddenly, a woman appeared to my right, walking past us on the verge. She was almost jog-trotting in her eagerness to overtake us. The noise was coming from her nylon anorak as her arms brushed forwards and back in a most exaggerated manner. The amount of friction must have been incredible, though on the plus side I imagine she was generating enough heat to keep her toasty warm in there.

She rejoined the path and continued in front us, her pace unabated. The strange gait had not been adopted in order to pass us, it was how she was intending to move. We debated (once she was out of hearing but still in sight) what one might call this hybrid method of locomotion. At any moment, she looked as if she might break into a jog, but tantalisingly never quite got there. After a heated five minutes of debate, during which time she had receded into the distance, we settled on 'jalking'. I hope she didn't melt her anorak.

Funnily enough, I did spend a fair part of today in the Cupboard of Doom. The Boss needed me to find some brackets for mounting projectors. Not too difficult, you might think. Doesn't require a degree in advanced heuristics, one might speculate. Quite.

Let me take you by the hand and lead you into the Cupboard of D. More a room, than a cupboard in fact. Chock full of racking, each shelf (of which there are 24) (I know because I labelled them today) disgorging its varied contents towards the poor new staff member standing on the tiled floor, looking up in a high state of trepidation. The shelves seem to go on for ever, and when they stop, they are still piled high with empty cardboard boxes which stretch yearningly to the ceiling.

Contents of the CofD include old printers, old PCs, mice (USB, PS/2 and serial), hubs, switches, network adapters, graphics cards, toner cartridges, shirts, laptop cases, network cables, IDE cables, power cables, serial cables, parallel cables, SATA cables, other various and unidentified cables, did I mention the cables?, shoes, masking tape, a toolbox, a towel, hard drives, optical drives, Dymo labellers, cardboard boxes, sound cards, memory sticks, nylon trousers, keyboards, software, documentation, a toner vacuum and me. Oh, and apparently somewhere there are these bloody brackets.

I rummaged. I ransacked. I grubbed. I probed. I scoured. I investigated. I excavated. I, not to put too fine a point on it, fossicked. I found one. No I didn't, it was another kind of bracket. Apart from being too small and completely the wrong colour, it was identical. Then, joy of joy, I found one. And another. Sadly the well ran dry at this point and throughout my lunch break the knowledge that I had to find a further three brackets loomed over me.

Adopting a 'watched pot never boils' stance, I sorted out the toner cartridges, tidying them onto one shelf instead of three and carrying out a quick inventory of the stock. As I stood proudly inspecting the neat array of boxes, a glint from the right caught my eye, and I bagged a third bracket. I bore it proudly through into the office just in time to meet up with the technician tasked with putting the projectors up. I waved the third bracket encouragingly. "They don't fit," was the response. A torrent of bad language, curses and imprecations toiled through my brain. "Meh," I said.

Later, I sat at my computer, blinking in the unaccustomed daylight. Unconsciously and in synchronised fashion the Boss and I sat up straighter and looked busier as our radar caught the Beak closing in swiftly. He checked what time I would be in tomorrow morning. "Briefing meeting. 8.30, Staff Room. Introduce you. Great stuff." Better stop blogging and get ironing then...