Where the hell is the sandwich man? I am sat here in the office, it’s lunchtime, and I am waiting for the arrival of the guy who sells sandwiches in the car park. His arrival will be trumpeted by the bright and cheerful sounding of the van’s horn - several blasts which you can bizarrely interpret his mood by. You also imagine that the beeping will be suffixed with an enormous crash as the van piles into some other mystery vehicle.
It never happens.
Oh crap - where the hell is he? I swear - when he finally arrives I’m going to run into the car park, tip the van up and eat it’s entire contents.
While becoming increasingly ravaged by starvation that only a baguette and a chocolate bar will resolve, I am being hounded by my unix admin friend, who has taken it upon herself to become a developer. It would appear her real aim is to get me to write the code for her. I don’t mind at all, but it is quite comical when I’m talking to a colleague about some of my own programming, and a chat window pops up, filled with javascript, SQL, and various rants about the splurges of programming not working.
When I get minutes to spare, I look over the code and send her bits that do work, and she messages back that she loves me (only she doesn’t really, or she would be here delivering a baguette and a chocolate bar, dammit!).
My stomach is going to start making horrific gurgling noises soon.