Ah, November. Misty, dark too early, the wrong kind of Autumn on the railways, something going on in America, burning effigies in the park and trying to shoot down crows with rockets. Mmmm.
Also, business as usual in the land of client-agency relationships. This diagram nicely sums things up. From Giles Bowkett via Jason Froggett.
At work the other day I received one of those charming Royal Mail bits of cardboard. The ones that I suspect are delivered because, oh I don’t know, the pubs are open and the parcel is too heavy or something. Hmph, and no-one says thank-you when you’ve spent all day trudging round in the cold and the rain, and what the fuck happened to giving the postie a Christmas tip?
Normally I get these bits of cardboard rather than a parcel because it’s been delivered during working hours. Working hours! When no-one’s home, yeah? There’s probably some great strategy at work here to maximise everyone’s fucked-offness. I digress.
This latest bit of cardboard promised a surprise. I wasn’t expecting a delivery. “Ooo, it’s proof of life on other planets,” I thought. The bloody aliens had, understandably, got a bit confused about the postal charges though. There was 40p left to pay.
40p for the chance of never having to work properly again because I’d be on the Trekkie/Trekker circuit signing photos of someone who looked like a younger version of me? Best offer I’d had all day.I logged on the to the Royal Mail website to settle up. Oh, another £1 to pay in admin charges. Hmm… well, I could do a better ad for Warcraft than Shatner… bring it on.
The next day the alien communicae arrived. It was a box of radioactive cakes from Ultraspeed hosting to say “Merry Christmas and thanks for the business this year”. I’m thinking of sending them a life-size replica of the Eiffel Tower made from lead with a 2p stamp stuck on it.
