Horse Ballet

I really do know very little about horses, beyond them all having a leg at each corner, a hoof on the end of each leg, and they're generally big enough to ride. Not that I've ridden one in probably 25 years, and that was for an hour of light-duty pony trekking in which the animal knew the routine and did precisely what it wanted. This was to do the same old circuit of the bridleways around Queen Elizabeth Country Park near Petersfield in Hampshire.

Anyway, fast-forward to Doha in 2016, and my friends Nix and Pegz suggested that I might like to go along to an international horse tournament over at Al Shaqab. As Beloved Wife was in Doha that weekend, we agreed to meet at the venue.

In the traditional way, we arrived at Gate 8 as signposted, to be told that the parking was full, and to go to Gate 9. There, another officious Bottom Inspector declared that we'd have to drive halfway to bluddy Shahhaniya and get the shuttle bus back. So I parked outside on the street. The same jobsworth declared that we weren't allowed to enter the car park on foot from Gate 9; I drove back to Gate 8, entered on foot, and we made our way to the entrance halfway between Gates 8 and 9.

No, I don't understand it either.














Having met up with Nix and Pegz, we sat and watched some horses going over jumps, and I took photos. As I said, I'm completely Jon Snow about how to do it, but I do get that instructing the animal to get its stride exactly right in order to clear 1.6m hurdles takes a lot of skill. And to stay aboard whilst doing so: that also helps. At least the rules are fairly easy:

Fastest wins, assuming nothing gets knocked over and nobody falls off.  If nobody gets a clear round, fastest still wins with minimum faults. And these are world-class performers, so falling off is probably extremely unlikely.

We'd arrived for a final jump-off against the clock, and when that was over we went to the indoor arena to watch the horse ballet.

Dressage, as it is more properly known, is more difficult to understand than jumping. There are stopwatches turning, there are judges in several different locations, and there's a loud music track that keeps changing.

The horse dances. Not in a 'bouncing around on its hind legs' way like the Lipizzaner stallions at the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, but a lot of hoof-pointing, high strides, and a whole lot of other stuff that must have names. See Jon Snow for more details.

I noted double reins, and a lot of very, very subtle moves from each rider. Nix assures me that the tiniest movement allows the rider to tell the horse what is required. The performances obviously were the result of months or years of training and practice. I couldn't do most of it, and I've only actually  got one pair of hooves.

 ]}:-{>

Waste of space

What does the Goat do for a living? Paperwork. He ticks boxes and fills in forms. He writes action plans and risk assessments. He checks designs for compliance with standards. He proof-reads documents for language, spelling, grammar, and content. He even writes technical reports.

How much of the Goat's work over the past 18 months has been accepted by the Client? How many items have been approved?

None at all. Despite consents from the many layers of checkers and reviewers, the actual Client has rejected everything. There is nothing of the Goat's work that has allowed this billion-dollar project to progress.

'Perfect' is the enemy of 'fully compliant with the Terms of Reference'.

And this upsets the Goat, whose personality requires due diligence and professionalism.

If an airline pilot screws up, people die. Same for doctors and also bus drivers. If the Goat screws up, it creates paperwork. If the Goat doesn't screw up, the Client will still reject his work for failing to meet the Clint's latest whim. Then more paperwork.

So the Goat adds precisely no value to anything. He is merely here to take money, spend it on rent and food, and then die. And once his employer figures this out the money will stop.

]}:-{>

Regression to mean

Flaxton Faun

It seems that the Goat is doomed to mediocrity. His body absolutely refuses to lose enough weight to get his Body Mass Index below 30. The Goat believes that using BMI as the sole arbiter of overall fitness is flawed. However, it would still be nice not to be labelled as ‘obese’ by the ill-educated Ticky-Box Police. Despite a carefully calorie-controlled diet since the summer of 2013 and steady loss of now over 20% of his body mass because he really was a great lardarse, the Goat has plateaued. Every time he approaches BMI = 30 it’s as if his body recoils in horror and weight gains ensue This despite his consuming ever-decreasing numbers of calories, and despite exercise.

Beloved Wife says that the problem lies with cortisol, which is a hormone released in response to stress and – long story short – pushes up the weight.

The Goat maintains a balanced diet, consumes sensible quantities of healthy vegetables, and generally avoids burgers, crisps, and similar junk. But everything pushes up the Goat’s weight, including air.

Stress -> cortisol -> weight gain
Diet -> hunger -> unhappiness -> stress -> cortisol -> weight gain
Depression -> stress -> cortisol -> weight gain
Starvation -> famine mode -> weight gain

It says here in the University of Interweb’s Faculty of Wikipedia that music therapy can reduce cortisol levels.

As is now well documented, the Goat plays flute-like wind instruments. A six-hole ocarina, recorders, and the recorders’ electric ally the EWI. He was also given a blues harmonica for Christmas, and has been struggling with this one too. Yesterday, the Goat spent all day in front of his home computer with the EWI, some music notes, a load of electric string, and a video capture device. He tried and tried. And tried and tried and tried. And tried. After nearly 100 takes, he had a couple of tunes recorded and posted on Facebook. They are still littered with misfingered notes, completely wrong notes, and horrible ‘how do I finger that again?’ pauses. As the Goat has been at this music playing thing on and off for about 40 years, and has been playing almost daily for the past three or four, it seems disappointing that he seems to have plateaued at this still mediocre level.

Oh, he has improved. He’s no longer scared of the ‘black notes’ and will have a pop at anything in most key signatures. However, some keys are appallingly difficult on a recorder, or anything with similar fingering, and he prefers C,D, F, G and their relative minors. (Technical note for any actual musicians who may have blundered into this blog.) Not that the Goat can sight-read music at anything like the speed required.

But, when it comes down to it, the Goat’s ability falls far short of a live public performance. He occasionally goes along to Open Mic nights with intent to play. These might be essentially Karaoke without a backing track and in front of a benign audience, but the moment the other performers start it becomes extremely obvious that the Goat is catastrophically outclassed and he’s too embarrassed or intimidated to get the instrument out of its bag.

Back to cortisol. The Goat’s music therapy, far from reducing stress, actually boosts it with the frustrations of his inability. And having blown his entire one-day weekend on this exercise in futility, he’s back to work specifically and solely to subject himself to six more days of stress.

]}:-{>

Dreary Diary - TL; DR

A true account of the last few months of the Goat's diary. Only the names have been changed to protect the Goat from the guilty.

Sun 09 August
Today’s presentation went well and was “very good.’ We are “the best performing consultant.”

Unfortunately the target audience, including Mr K, was the usual plethora of OCD, ADHD, and ESN and it was really difficult to get them to concentrate or understand. Happy, joy, etc.

Plus a bollocking from my senior management for failing to achieve the impossible vis-à-vis the newly redefined Key Performance Indicators. It’s like running 100m in 11 seconds, then being forced to wear leg irons, achieving 20 seconds, and then being whined at for failing to get 11 seconds or better.

Mon 10 August
Just back from another meeting at the Faculty of Orchilalia.

Dear Mr D,

As you disagree with our contention that the meeting went well, and you do not believe Mr K’s assessment that we’re very good, may I suggest that you cancel your contract with us and do everything yourself?

That way, my employment will terminate, I can escape from this hellhole, and you can go fcek yourself.

Yours insolently…

Tue 18 August
Mr K wants a presentation on Thursday (because he’s apparently forgotten what I showed him in May) and keeps inviting more and more people. I am convinced that someone has noticed a discrepancy between what we sketched in May and what I’ve developed by August, and Mr K’s out to make me look stupid.

Thu 20 August
Unusually for me I didn’t sleep. My brain refused to shut down over today’s Presentation from Hell. Mr K has sent notes of his review of our report and has provided loads of uncalled-for comments.

Presentation did not go well, with Mr K arguing about every point. Every point, including where they are obviously wrong (citing non-existent design standards, demanding detailed designs for blatantly unbuildable options, etc).

Pissed off? Doesn’t even come close. “I am at the limits of my medication.”

Now in another bluddy meeting. What a waste of a day.

Sun 23 August
The bullshine has started already. Mr K, seeking confirmation that ducts will fit alongside street lighting in a 3m median (which they will – duh!), is now demanding (completely irrelevant) foundation details to query ad nauseam.

Tue 25 August
I have just seen an updated schedule that shows completion of design at 29 December. DECEMBER.

And the joyous news that all the document submittals are coming back for yet another go-around, so December looks very optimistic.

Wed 26 August
Today’s Audit From Hell may be summarised by “You need a register to keep track of the register that records a checklist that checks that the logged checks have been checked as carried out.”

Never mind the fceking engineering. As long as the TickyBox Police are kept satisfied…

Sun 30 August
Mr D (9am): Meeting tomorrow. Bring expert.
Muggins (9am): Expert is in in the Levantosphere. Weekend. Can’t get hold of him until tomorrow.
Mr D (3.30pm): Meeting tomorrow at 11am.
For fcek’s sake, you fceking fcek.

Mon 31 August
Aargh! Not waving but drowning.

So help me, I’m about to break. Too many things arriving in my inbox with “must be done by COB today” and I’m barely keeping up with simply distributing the work. To say nothing of report writing, coordinating, and dealing with a fcekload of QA crap which amounts to spending days creating new records, registers, etc., and populating them.

More bluddy meetings. Each one comprises a 45 minute drive, meeting, overrun, delivery boy duties, notes, 45 minutes back, draft minutes, revise minutes, catch up with emails that arrived in my absence…

Wed 02 September
Becoming sick with worry. Too many balls in the air, and more being added hourly. Everything is demanded immediately, and failure to deliver any of them results in more paperwork to explain why.

Things falling between the cracks having been buried by dozens of newer emails. Result: irate phone calls From Messrs D and K demanding immediate action. All need to be divvied out to staff all of whom are either already overwhelmed or not at their desks, or often both.

Thu 03 September
Slightly better day today. I’ve been able to shift a lot of things, and my approach at the moment to unreasonable “I want…” deadlines is “Then you can want!”

Sat 05 September
Oh, Goat…! Here we go again with another six days.

Sat 13 September
Five more sleeps; two presentations; and a fcekload of rewriting to do. I can’t start any of the rewrites until after meetings that haven’t been scheduled, and instructions following meetings. And because Mr K is already winding down for Eid… I’m getting kicked for delaying the fceking project.

Mon 14 September
Antici…

…pation. Another skill sadly lacking everywhere I look.

Nobody can understand how I can forecast the logical consequences of instructions from Upon High. Result is no preparation for the fallout that Cassandra predicted.

Dear Mr D,
Please find enclosed a plot. Provided with my compliments to replace the one that you seem to have mislaid…”

Tue 15 September
Grud on toast! This week’s dragging. Still not yet half past Tuesday.

I do not know why “Do not draw X” results in draftsman spending hours (as in every time I turn my back after repeating myself) drawing “X”.

Neither do I understand why “Copy this CAD drawing” takes all day. It took me an hour to draw from nothing, and only needs a drawing frame to be added.

Wed 16 September
“Please reprint all eight copies of the document because there’s a one-character misprint on one footer.” And we wonder why deforestation might be a problem.

Why is your design stronger and more expensive than the other contracts?
Because their calcs are wrong.
But their calcs are approved.
If we do what they did, it’ll fail.
Change the design!

Mr K puts us through the wringer, but lets others get away with shite. FFS.

Thu 17 September
Just found out Eid has shifted. I have a flight booked for Sat pm and Sun is now a holiday. I get to spend a day in Doha when EVERYTHING will be shut. Cheap Flights will charge the GDP of Latvia to change the ticket.

My cup runneth over.

Tue 29 September
Oh, deep joy. Mood yesterday was good. It has instantly plummeted today after a meeting with Mr D. He wanted me to redraft a document for this morning, and he just told me how I should totally rewrite it again.

Wed 30 September
---/..-./..-./…

The reviewer is on leave. His subordinate can’t make a decision. The designer is somewhere in the Levantosphere. We offered a video conference. Mr D is demanding that the designer appear in person. Tomorrow. Immigration is shut until next week. The designer can’t get a visa. This is all my fault.

Aaaaand…I have rewritten that godforsaken report twice more today. I’m forbidden from using ANY of the reasons why we want what we need in my justification. It will be rejected and we’ll be left with having to tear down half a bridge and redesign it from scratch. All because it complies with the 2015 standards but not the 1997.

Utterly and completely demoralised.

Monday 05 October
Oh deep joy. Report rejected because we didn’t address Comment 15. But there are only 14 fceking comments. This will go on until they nail me into a box.

I try and try, and it’s bluddy Mission Fceking Impossible. “Can’t be done, Mr Goat.”

Sun 11 October
I bust my arse to get Mr D what he wants by Saturday, an artificial deadline imposed on Thursday afternoon. Sunday morning, and there’s an email telling me to change it.

AGAIN, EVERYTHING I FCEKING DO IS FCEKING WRONG.

They changed their tiny minds, but this still doesn’t prevent me from getting the blame for failing to be psychic.

Trouble is I get blamed for late delivery of everything because of abortive work taking up engineering and drafting time. This in turn is because we don’t have an unlimited supply of technical staff, which is my fault for under-resourcing, which I can do nothing about because of offshore management.

Mon 12 October
TWO independent sets of comments (three if you include Mr D’s whinging about them) that prove Mr K can’t read simple drawings. Result is yet another fceking rewrite. I can’t dumb it down any more without writing it in Comic Sans 16 point.

Wed 14 October
Maybe I should get on with wasting my time writing technical reports for rejection, instead of whingeing about it.

Dismayed, distraught, demoralised, disincentivised, discouraged. I just want to crawl under a rock.

Not off this weekend, worst luck. Got a fcekload of reports to rewrite urgently.

I think part of the problem is the minimum 48h/wk. I generally average 52 including weekends. Compare with the stereotypically hardworking Germans. 35. And our London office? 37.

Thu 15 October
I’m still alive, so I guess I can drag my lazy arse into the office.

Sat 17 October
Good news: Anti-anger medication is available in Qatar without prescription. Coincidence?

Mon 19 October
Mr D wants my boss to come from the Levantosphere and “as Project Director” sort out various issues. Mr D hasn’t even approached me as PD. I am superfluous.

For obvious reasons, everyone is keeping me away from client meetings. Suits me fine, but as it’s a major part of why I’m here…

Much as anticipated, “Propose a bridge and get stakeholder feedback” has mutated into “For free, develop every conceivable option including ludicrous ones. Not done this? That’s ‘cos you’re crap.”

Wed 21 October
“Blah, blah, submittal is crap…

Item 3: Show this one thing only.
Item 5: Show all the other stuff too.
Item 6: Show all the stuff we previously told you to remove.”

Tossers!

Sun 25 October
You know the ongoing reports ball-ache? My email inbox includes demands for revised (again) text and additional drawings for Reports 1, 2, 3, 5, 6 by tomorrow. They take nearly a week each when drawings are included.

Wed 28 October
In THE SAME COMMENTS SHEET, Mr K disputes the traffic figures from the approved report, demands printouts of the analysis that he already has in the approved report, demands two traffic lanes because he thinks one lane isn’t enough, and demands one lane because traffic flows are light.

Rebuttal of this garbage will take me a week.

Thu 29 October
Mr D: “Blah blah…no reports have yet been approved after one year, which is holding up construction and it’s all your fault. You are to blame.”

Fceking aresholes. Do they think I’m not trying my best?

Mr D sees the garbage we get back from Mr K and regards it as my fault for not delivering what Mr K wants to see today,even though it’s exactly what Mr K demanded yesterday..

I sent an internal email including “Does Mr D think we’re not doing our best?” and got a response from my boss: “He doesn’t think.”

Sun 01 November
I wonder which part of “Update the road cross section drawing” means “Use the old cross section in order to give some anally-retentive reviewers something easy to reject.”?

Thu 05 November
Today had to resubmit eight copies of a 20 page document because one instance of ‘2015’ had been mistyped ‘215’. Like it could’ve been something else in the date field: ’20 October 215’.

This is the level of Mr K’s anal retentiveness.

It has taken me over 11 hours, but I have made it to the end of the day.

Thu 26 November
Mr K doesn’t want me at today’s presentation. Looks like Mr K has been looking for an excuse, and seized upon last week’s perceived slight. Apparently he was grossly insulted by me; something everyone else in the presentation, me included, completely missed. I have no useful function. I might as well not be here.

My only remaining functions are to produce paperwork for Mr K to reject, and to earn money to give away to financial institutions.

Apparently Mr K’s Roads (not Motorways) department liked the proposals. With any luck they’ll do some serious arse kicking of reviewers for failing to approve this stuff months ago. But I’m not holding my breath.

Owing to a colossal design cockup that I’ve known about for months but been powerless to correct, everyone is gunning for a scapegoat.

Perhaps I should fall on my sword and save the company’s face…

Joyous news. I think I’ve been fired.
Everyone is talking to everyone else (but not me) about my fcekwit intolerance.
I can’t stand it anyway. I leave and everyone is inconvenienced.

Happy Thanksgiving to me. “Are you OK?” No, I am not fceking OK.

Maybe I can spin it out until after Christmas and get paid for not being at work.
Oh, but annual leave is all taken unpaid, then refunded in September.

Tue 08 December
My boss refused to accept my offer to resign. So I can’t even escape.

As a mood descriptor, “fed up” doesn’t even come close.

Mon 14 DecemberI just calculated our best guess for final approval of all design elements. Assuming that out employer doesn’t throw a massive spanner in the works (which is my no means unlikely), my job here will evaporate at the end of April. APRIL! Aaarrrrgggghhh!

Tue 15 December
Yet more comments on the documents. I have to make tiny semantic changes and resubmit the usual eight copies for further review. I’ll just leap through this flaming hoop again, I guess.

Sun 27 December
Back from ten days away from the Whole Hole from Hell. All my reports are back yet again. Mr K want’s them rewritten “like this” this time. Only the engineering never alters. Everything else is a constant carousel of changes.

Congratulations us. Today we hit 100 submittals. How many have been approved? Nil, nada, zilch, zero, sifr…

Sat 02 January
At 1330 I went back to Cloud City to try to avoid any further buffoonery.

Sun 03 January
I think the phrase rhymes with ‘Clucking bell.’

Tue 19 January
“We the unwilling
Working for the unknowing
Doing the impossible
For the ungrateful.”

Again.

Sat 23 January
I think I’ve cracked a rib, but nothing can be done beyond painkillers. Funny how ‘en panne,’ which is French for ‘broken,’ sounds like ‘in pain.’


And so it continues, with no light at the end of the tunnel. Mr K has recently returned all the submittals as "not accepted", so they all need rewrites and resubmittals. Actually one of them is accepted in principle, but still needs a rewrite and resubmittal, so Mr K is simply jerking me around because he can.

Actions speak louder than words, and the actions indicate that, despite all the rhetoric, Mr K doesn't ever want to see any of this stuff built.

]}:-{>

Penned

Assuming for a moment that anyone still reads this blog, or is even remotely interested, this hiatus will end when the Goat is in a better frame of mind.

As the situation currently stands, the Goat will end up either in a cage or in a box.

]}:-{>

Flagging a problem

“You are required,” decreed the Grand Frommaj to one of his Trusted Advisors, “To talk to all the other Trusted Advisors and then to submit your proposals to the Directorate of Rubber Stamps for approval.”

Not wishing to disobey a Frommaji decree, the Trusted Advisor did so. He and other Advisors met, formed a consensus, and then the Trusted Advisor went to the Directorate to obtain his Rubber Stamp of approval. 

Which was summarily rejected. 

The Directorate of Rubber Stamps, who was the final approving authority, advised that the flagpoles had to be blue in colour, and all the banners needed to be a uniform shade of red. The Trusted Advisor took these new requirements away, made changes to his drawings, and then resubmitted. After several more meetings during which the shades of red and blue were tweaked and adjusted, the Directorate of Rubber Stamps at last provided a final and irrevocable approval.

And they all lived happily ever after? Not as such.

A second Trusted Advisor, and a third, each received his own feedback and final approval. Except that they’d both been required to provide green flagpoles and yellow banners, or black flagpoles and orange banners. Each Trusted Advisor had explained that what he was told to do differed from the other Advisors’ proposals, but the Directorate assured each that this one was the correct one.

All three Trusted Advisors met and discussed the issue as had been instructed by the Grand Frommaj. It was obvious that a single solution could not be developed. The Ministry of Paper Clips stepped in and helpfully pointed out that it was entirely the Trusted Advisors’ fault that these three different designs had all been approved when a single design was required by the approving authority, the Directorate of Rubber Stamps.

And so, because the Directorate of Rubber Stamps could not lose face, he refused to change any of his previous approvals. All three sets of flagpoles and banners were supplied and erected, and blame for the subsequent ridicule in the international press was laid firmly at the feet of the Trusted Advisors.

]}:-{>

D*ckhead Day

In a fight between a Patrol and a Sunny
 there can be only one victor.

One is perhaps given to wonder if there’s been a rash of New Year’s resolutions to drive extra badly this year.

First, we note that Qatar Police have introduced some new ‘no messing around’ rules, including a QAR1000 fine for undertaking and penalty points for speeding. You collect 15 of these and get a bicycle. Therefore undertaking is definitely a huge no-no.

I encountered the first d*ckhead at about 0615. On a two-lane dual carriageway with a 120km/h speed limit and no other traffic around, he was bumbling along in the left-hand lane at 80km/h. As coming up behind him and flashing headlights counts as aggressive and offensive driving I couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t whiz past on the inside. After about ten minutes, the driver of the pick-up finished his Facebook post, glanced in his mirror and at last moved over to let me past. Then he moved back into the left lane.

Now, normal procedure when waiting to turn left on a local road, I thought, is to wait in the middle of the road with the left signal flashing, wait for a gap in the oncoming traffic, and then make the turn. Apparently not. At about 0635 I had to stand on my brakes when a rickety Yaris suddenly turned left at full speed right in front of me. Just as well I was doing only the 40km/h speed limit and there was nobody behind me. Indicators? What are those?

Now 0930, and I was on my way up Al Shamal Road to a meeting. This expressway is four lanes in each direction and has a 120km/h speed limit. In the usual way the right-hand lane was empty because only inferior drivers lacking in the trouser department drive there. The second lane was full of water tankers and labourers’ buses. Lane 3 had a variety of cars and pickups generally trundling along at 110 to 120km/h, and there was me in my Nissan Sunny. Small Nissans receive zero respect from those magnificent men in their ginormous SUVs, and generally speaking I use the left-hand lane to overtake, getting the hell out of it as soon as is safely possible.

Enter the Chevrolet Avalanche, a humungous pickup with a 5.3 litre V8 engine and a nut holding the wheel. I was in the middle of an overtake and right up at the speed limit (which is rigidly enforced by cameras every few hundred metres) when I saw him, but he came up so fast I could neither accelerate nor slow down before being tailgated at about six inches. Flash Flash Flash. Hitting the gas under these circumstances is futile in a Sunny. The Avalanche swung into Lane 3, spotted the car I was overtaking, and hit his anchors. Then he was back, undertaking me before I had chance to move out of his way, cutting in front of me so that I have no idea how the vehicles didn’t hit. Then, as anticipated, I was treated to a brake test.

The next tailgater (d*ckhead number four in three hours if anyone’s keeping score) was about five kilometres further up the same road. This one was piloting a shiny new Nissan Patrol. He didn’t even bother slowing down, choosing instead to overtake me on the left-hand breakdown lane. Alas, the hard shoulder is narrow, a Nissan Patrol is wide, and I couldn’t move over because of the stream of slower cars to my right when the driver ran out of talent.

After stopping he leapt from his car and demanded first in Arabic and then is good English why I’d rammed him and not moved over. When I said “Overtaking. Hard shoulder forbidden” he got all bent outta shape in the manner of varous pieces of Nissan hardware.

Enter my passengers. Both eyewitnesses, and both Arabic native speakers. The Patrol pilot very quickly decided that it was his fault, and in due course we ended up at the police station. There were discussions in Arabic, and I was given my copy of the police report, also entirely in Arabic. I got one of my colleagues to tell me exactly what it said. I’m not daft.

At this juncture I learned that the Patrol was covered only by third-party insurance. Not only was the owner going to be hours and hours late for his meeting, but he was due to incur a massive amount of expense. Driving on the hard shoulder is a serious offence.

And so to the car rental office to replace my Sunny.

“This police report says it’s your fault,” I was told. “Says here.”

“It most certainly does not. You imagine I can’t read Arabic? It actually says here…” and I proceeded to parrot what my colleague had told me.

“No, no, Mr Mohammed. You are to blame. It says so on the form.”

“It does indeed say that Mr Mohammed is to blame. But do I look like Mr Mohammed, with a Nissan Patrol? Or is it more likely that I’m the other party; one Mr G. Goat, driving a rental Sunny hired to him by your own good selves?”

Clearly an attempt to extort my insurance deductible, their pathetic attempt at subterfuge was exposed. “Now apologise!”

I decided to return to Cloud City and hide from society for the rest of the day. I have just been disturbed by Room Service. Someone ordered a Turkish coffee and gave my room number instead of theirs.

]}:-{>