I dreamed about work last night

5 September, 2021

To set the scene, this week for the first time I have been fully exposed to the release and deployment process at work. For most of my time as a developer my job was done when I checked in my code, passed the unit tests, and requested a merge. This week, I found out what happens after that. I did 50 hours this week.

In my dream, there was a small fire developing on the wood floor, which I stamped out. There was a wire poking out. The homeowner – who was really pleasant and nice – asked me what that was, and I said “maybe a network cable”, but I knew it wasn’t a network cable. After a moment, I corrected myself and told the truth. “It’s the lights”. One of the strings of programmable LED lights that I has run through this room. The end of the strip, where I had wired the connection, had gotten hot enough to light the wood.

With slowly dawning horror, I looked around the room. It was a big, split-level affair, I think trophies on the walls. Wood panelling. Lovely wood floor. I had run LED light strips all around the room – along the cornices, around the architraves, down along the skirting boards. The place looked fricking awesome.

And at each point where there was a join in the run of lights, at the corners where I had put in a wire to connect them, there was a small fire developing. Dozens. “Oh shit.”, I thought. “I am going to have to tear the whole lot out. It’s all got to come out right now.”

And that’s what work is like.


Mission

4 April, 2020

She seemed an ordinary elf woman. Beautiful? Oh yes, very much so. Possessed of an ageless grace? Yes, absolutely. Her brow speaking of wisdom, her eyes bright with intelligence? Yes, yes, yes. As I said: ordinary. An ordinary high elf of some status. There was no nimbus around her, her accoutrements did not shout with power, she was not surrounded by a grovelling court of flatterers. She gave audience alone, in a simple clearing in the forest. Perhaps the only clue might be that where she was, the moon seemed brighter and the night grew pale; where she walked, the trees whispered low. And to Lednor, another clue: his own power did not stain the grass here with wrong, so greatly overmatched and overawed – it seemed – that it dare not.

“So, Lednor, you are welcome. Your studies progress well?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Perhaps you might apprise me of them?”

She already knew, of course. But nevertheless: “I have studied the dark half of the cycle my queen. And the toxins with which the plants defend themselves from weeds and vermin.”

“Weeds and vermin. Apt.” Before her feet, the ground moved. Moss budded and roots grew, becoming into a map. “Here, to the south. Weeds and vermin.”

“My Queen?”

She sighed. In patience? Irritation? “Four centuries. How quickly they forget. They have crossed the river again. The usual – tree killing, earth raping, arson. Land clearing, farming, mining. Only a few handful just yet, but more will come if we do not act. They breed so quickly.”

Lednor studied the map. “Yes, my Queen. I understand. I am ready.”

“Are you? Very well. Go weed them, Lednor. Root and branch. Quietly. It might be best to join them, live with them. But do not grow comfortable. The fewer babies among them, the better. The High Druid must not know – he would disapprove of your studies. Many of our own would be uncomfortable with them. The Emperor will know, of course, but he will say nothing. North of the Silvermere is mine and shall remain so.”

Lendor bowed low, and his Queen dismissed him with a motion of her wrist. As he left her presence, his own power began to reassert itself. A subtle odour of tannin-rich water, dank moss and toadstool, rotting wood, and just on the edge of identification, the faint smell of a corpse tangled in the roots below the waterline. He began to make plans. They had not enough human prisoners to properly test the toxins, so he would need to improvise in the field.

His step quickened with anticipation.


Lednor is a “Dark Alleys and Twisted Paths” 13th age druid. He is an adept of the Circle of Decay, with talents “Blighted Stench and “Life Leech”, and a novice of the Circle of Life, with talent “Font of Life”. Unless someone else wants to healbot, in which case I might go Circle of the Land instead.

Still need to do his stats.


The Honeybadger

6 October, 2018

So, The Bachelor. Why do I care? Because I don’t dare browse my usual internet content at my new job, I limit myself to news.com.au because there’s a link to it in the SOE setup, and news.com.au is loaded with crap about The Bachelor.

Seems The Honeybadger knocked back all the ladies. What a bastard! So many to pick from – he owed it to Australia to marry one of ’em!

Here’s what I think.

We can all agree, I’m sure, that it would be unreasonable to pick a girl and tell a dude he has to marry her. I’d say it would also be unreasonable to pick a dozen mostly identical girls and tell a dude to pick one. And all those bachelorette hopefuls were mostly identical.

“Identical?” you exclaim? “Identical? Why – some were blonde, and some weren’t!”

Were any of ’em – for instance – short? Maybe Mr Badge deep down yearns for a little pocket rocket to make his life complete. Were any of ’em – say – thicc? A little cushion for the pushin? Or: did any of ’em have truly big tits?

Nope, nope, and nope. They were all tall-ish, skinny models.

Were any of ’em asian? Maybe Mr Cummins has yellow fever. Maybe he has a thing for dusky temptresses from the subcontinent, so: were any of ’em Indian? How about black? Or – going the other way – were any one of these bachelorettes a milky-translucent-skinned green-eyed ranga? Molly Ringwald had her fans, you know.

But let’s get away from the merely physical.

Were any of ’em shy? Or demure? Or were all of them perfectly comfortable in a dress with a “neckline” plunging all the way to the navel?

Were any of ’em – oooh, I dunno – a fiery Mediterranean type? Maybe Mr Cummins has a thing for women who yell in Spanish or Italian, or Maltese women who truly believe in revenge.

Were any of ’em sincerely religious?

Naaah. There very format of the show makes it impossible. They were all models looking to get their faces and bodies on TV.

Were any of them really financially smart, a self-made millionairess from her own investments? Was any of them a waify, distracted art-girl? A nose-ringed anarchist? Or how about a country girl that can butcher a whole pig, no worries?

I’m sure at least some of them wanted children. So: how many of them could cook a family meal? Do a roast like it’s not really a big deal, it’s just what we usually have on a Sunday?

See what I’m saying? Don’t get me wrong: don’t accuse me of saying that a girl must be all of these things. Being one of them, or one of the millions of other types of individual is perfectly fine. There’s nothing in the least wrong with being a skinny cookie-cutter model with a white girl ass and no hips and I’m sure all of these women have their admirers. But insisting that Nick is obliged to marry a girl like that? When that’s just not what he happens to be into?

Hell no.

At least he takes marriage somewhat seriously. Seriously enough, at least, to not commit to someone because a TV producer tells him that Australia expects it.

It’s a stupid TV show. Its premise is bonkers. And it’s mainly some of the worst kinds of people who would want to be on it. They’ll never put an honest man on the show again – they’ve learned their lesson. From now on, every bloke playing the season’s bachelor will be an impossibly handsome gay guy with a wholly invented and scripted back story.