Quite Random

Calorific

1 Calorie:
The amount of energy required to raise the temperature of 1 kilogram of water 1 degree Celsius (°C), equivalent to approximately 4000 Joules of energy, or 1 Kilojoule. Known as a large calorie or a kilocalorie.

1 calorie:
The amount of energy required to raise the temperature of 1 gram of water 1 °C, or approximately 4 Joules of energy. Known as a small calorie.

An average human male requires approximately 10 MJ of energy every day, or approximately a third of a litre of petrol (which contains 36 MJ). A human male however cannot drink petrol unless they are insane, or attempting self-emmoliation. Therefore they need to work out how much energy they need in calories, as food packaging sadly does not give energy readings in terms of fractions of a litre of petrol.

1 large calorie, a Calorie, is 1000 small calories, or calories, which is also 4.18 kJ. Two different measures, spelt the same, the capitalisation of the first letter being the only distinguishing feature between them. This probably explains why so many diets go very wrong.

If a human male requires 10 MJ of energy, 1 MJ being 1 million Joules, this equals 10000 kJ, 10000 thousand Joules, or 10000000 Joules. 10000 kJ therefore equals 2392.35 Calories. That’s Calories not calories.

I need a lie down.

Smoothies and doughnuts

There’s comfort eating in the office this afternoon – fruit smoothies for the body and doughnuts for the soul. Everyone is ill. One person sat at his keyboard two days ago and coughed and spluttered violently until he was instructed to go home – before he barfed up a lung and before everyone else got what he had.

He may have kept his lung but it looks like we all got what he had.

They say schools are unhealthy environments to be in, all those germs and viruses floating around the hallways and classrooms, but this office feels just as bad. The time is punctuated by various sniffs, coughs, moans and, well, ‘mucusy’ noises. At least we don’t have air conditioning in here. You can almost see the bugs surfing the recycled, convecting air, looks of glee on their faces as they find the next healthy person to take out.

So what to do tonight? Sensible answer – go home, wrap up warm, watch the telly and eat some soup. Silly answer – go to Covent Garden and belatedely celebrate my birthday in a smoky bar with lots of beer and a South African playing cover versions. Oops. Colour me silly.

Idle

Ah, Friday.

So, the Random Kitten Generator is providing some amusement this afternoon, almost as much as one of my colleagues wrestling with a flatbed scanner, and I’m thinking of everything I need to do with my life and putting it on Remember The Milk. I can’t feel too bad about being unproductive on company time, after all I have achieved just about everything I was supposed to, I’m moderately cheap, and I have saved you the taxpayers vast sums of money recently by designing promotional mugs for a lot cheaper than you’d get from a creative agency headed by a man with a cord jacket and a polo neck who goes ‘yaaa’.

Should I put skills in mug design on my CV, or is that just going to make it even more like I’ve never made my mind up what to do for a living?

Prayer for a Wednesday

O Noodly Master, O Flying Spaghetti Monster
Give me the strength to get out of bed early enough to make my morning tea
Do not let the Today programme lull me back to sleep.
Grant that I may find a warm seat on the left of the bus where that little ledge is that I can rest my foot on,
And allow me a quick and straightforward exit at Brixton.
Spare me from saying things at work like “I’ve got that meeting room booked now but they’re still in there”
Or indeed even from caring.
Give me the grace to go to the cafe for my meeting instead, at least they do good coffee.
Spare me so many meetings, as I never get any work done in them,
And they are extremely dull.
Allow me not to be distracted by trivial concerns,
Such as how much pesto might be left in the fridge.
And O Noodly Master, I know that you are a gentle and kind noodly deity,
But force me to sit down and do my coursework when I get home,
And allow me not to be distracted by the telly,
For thine is the noodliness, the meatballs and the glory
For ever and ever
Arrr.

Reply to all

It’s evil.

In the work environment, petty squabbles snowball to become all-out battles of words, people finding ever more polite ways to tell each other to fuck off, and all for the benefit of an ever-growing list of recipients, people who really need to read this. It’s either copy them in now, or send it to them later with an ‘FYI’ at the top… ‘can you believe what they said? Mm? No. Me neither’. A pause between each new message addressed to all and sundry, a haitus between each new response. It’s like listening to an argument at a Quakers meeting.

In your personal life, reply to all is all about the banter. Someone wants to organise a party / night out / dinner / weekend in Blackpool. They e-mail everyone they have ever met, including a really confused Dutch guy they got drunk with in Bangkok four years ago. Someone hits ‘reply to all’ with a witty retort, because when you’re all on the same mailing list, well, you’re all friends aren’t you? No. Few people know each other, the ones that do phone each other, and the Dutch guy spends the next five years even more confused as to why he keeps getting sent viruses by a hairdresser from Bracknell he has never met.

So. Ban the ‘reply to all’ button.

What else would I like to ban today?

• The guy outside Brixton Tube in the mornings shouting ‘Metro Metro Metro!’ as if he’s feeding pigs.
• The sight of Jade Goody in tears. For pity’s sake. It’s like a sea lion with conjunctivitis.
• Waking up and feeling more tired than when you went to bed.
• January.

I like lists.

Another rant about work… yep…

I hate going on about this, but it’s a bit like trying to get a bad taste out of my mouth. This blog is my mental granite, my Wrigley’s Extra (the blue one), my Euthymol. OK, enough with the imagery. But while I’ve mentioned it, holy fresh feeling Batman, is Euthymol good. Really. I shall never look back.

Gah. Consultants. Small minded people. I have to try and avoid thinking about work at the weekend, it’s not healthy. This weekend, my good mood has been threatened about three times with recollections of last week’s collection of prize ‘pearlers’. I’m talking about questions and comments so ludicrous that you have to look over your shoulder to see if you’re being wound up by a crank caller with a camera crew. I could recount them all, but it’s kind of a ‘you had to be there’ thing. I keep thinking of the question asked of a caller in Channel 4’s The IT Crowd – “I’m sorry… are you from the past?”.

The thing is, I think they think I’m slow in the head, these people. They have a tendency to throw me off altogether when they come out with something award-winningly doltish. I have to collect myself for a moment, pick my jaw up off the desk, and respond using words of no more than two syllables and the sincerest tone I can muster. It’s just the pause while I collect myself. I hear this feeble little voice in my ear – “you still there?”. I’m gibbering. Silently, but I’m gibbering.

And I think I’ve got it bad. Someone I know has to deal with irritating Italian pornographers and snooty chess grand masters.

Small minded people

They know who they are. They’re all over the place. Nothing positive to offer, ignorant, jealous, whingey, opinionated and rude. The workplace really is a shelter for these people, with their

RUDE CRITICAL EMAILS TYPED IN CAPITALS (OFTEN WITH SPELLING ERRROS),

their negativity, and the questions they feel they have to ask, which do nothing more than demonstrate how ignorant they are and how important they think they are, the equivalent of beating their chest for all to see. Many of these people have been hiding away for several years, taking their pay, and all for doing little more than being the little black cloud over the heads of anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Ask them for a solution – they won’t have one. Don’t even ask them for a problem – they’re happy to help.

You know the kind of person I mean.