Dear Person Who Minds the Canteen,
Look, I realise I'm hardly the belle of the ball. In fact, it's fairly safe to say that not only would pigs take wing before Maxim Magazine should ever list me amongst their Hottest 100 (or however it's called), but Roger Waters would climb astride one and fly it round the world. Having said that, I'm hardly ugly to Gorgonian proportions. Therefore, I can but assume it is not my baleful gaze that's curdling the little pots of cream that I pour into my tea every morning.
When were these things laid out for our consumption, then? 1972? Sure jeez.
In need of a strainer and a decent bottle of proper milk,
Dear Fellow She,
Oi. The average six-year-old boy's got better aim in the jacks than yourself. What the divil is wrong with you? Are you constitutionally incapable of recognising when you've made a mess? Seriously?
Your mum doesn't work here,
Dear Person Who Minds the Canteen,
Dear Gallant Knight,
I understand that your mother brought you up to be a chivalrous sort of chap, and I'm sure she lessoned you in always opening a door for a lady (never you mind what I think of that). However. Lingering in the doorway, and then blocking half of said doorway so that the lady in question has to undulate round you to accept your proffered opened door rather makes you less of a gentleman and a bit more of a buffoon. I'm glad I didn't have to duck beneath your arm, 'cos matey, it could well have come to that.
The next time you feel so moved, stop and think to yourself 'hrm...might my actions result in an uncomfortable proximity?' If the conclusion to which you come is 'yes', then perhaps you might think better of it. I mean, you'd never drape your mac across a mud puddle that concealled rather a deep pit in order to save a woman sullying up her shoes, would you?
Seriously, would you?
(and here's where my gorramned anaeurysm blows and spouts like fecking Cú Chulainn.)
No, it isn't anything in particular, but rather I've foolishly allowed it all to build to the point of needing absurd metaphor. Such is the way of me. Er.
My client? My very own external client? Sure, she never gives me product photos ever destined for a catalogue. Ah no, what she's given me are the ones that the team shoot after the product has been plunked down in its last resting places. I'd thought before that perhaps it had been decided that the photog was too costly, but no. The...boxes (or whatever they are) and bits of wood scattered round in one of the photos have proved telling.
What the devil am I to do with it all? I can change the colours round a bit, but too much, and the lot will look as though they were shot by the Martian rovers, and that will never do. And it's the same nonsense every year. I do my bit for the cause, pass it under herself's nose, and she says to me 'I'm not jazzed'. Well, the photos are your own, a chailín mo chroi. There's only so much Jazz I can compose with an empty pail, a couple of sticks and a bit of green chiffon (ha, which would be 'none at all').
I take her lot on every year, 'cos I'm the one who can handle her. Got to laugh at my own folly.
A) To make smart little booklets to pass round to everybody at your meeting?
B) To create greeting cards?
C) To create full-bleed, tabloid-sized brochures?
D) To create slideshows to be displayed onto screens or at kiosks?
I'll wait whilst you consider this.
Yeh, so I'm a bit short on patience - the answer, a chairde, is D. Can PowerPoint perform the tasks described in A-C? It can do, but as it's not meant to do, it presents the end user with a bit more of a challenge than if she'd created her brochure in InDesign or Quark (I don't believe in Publisher - so don't even bring it up). Now then, does this mean that you will be able to lay your manicured little fingers on it and change things round at your leisure when she sends you a sample? Not unless you possess the native application, but frankly, you're hardly the PowerPoint maven that you fancy yourself to be - so since you're only going to make a mess, might I suggest that you trust me (and those like me) when next you crave a full-bleed, tabloid-sized brochure?
If for no other reason than the time you save could be used to play another nine holes.
me: laptop + myself = not a chance in frigging hell. translation: up to my eyes in aggro. i've done. drink. me. now.
Sessa: what with the -10gb and all?
me: now the new one the one they'd decided to give me with a 60GB hard drive won't transfer my cursed files. i've fucking done with it. jesus it's choking on pdfs. why the fuck is that? they've been working at it - at this particular one for nigh onto two days. i'm truly going to sacrifice a chicken. i am. i'm going to slit its poxy throat and dance in the artaerial spray - 'cos that's the only fecking thing we've not done yet.