The laundry had its own mind made-up about our relationship and the ritual of washing: it thought I approached the task with a heart full of joy, assumed that the expression I wore during the task was a smile, and believed that the only reason I went out of the apartment was to go to my job; a necessary separation so that I could maintain my lifestyle, replace clothing items that had seen better days, and return to it with a heart made fonder by the absence of the one it loved.

But the laundry had it all wrong.

My clothing's inability to empathize made it blind to how things were from my perspective: it didn't see how I thought of the washing as an obligation or chore, it mistook my indifference for a smile, and it just couldn't fathom that I could have a life outside of the walls that composed my apartment. Friends? No, it did not know the word.

Like a building of lies built on a foundation of misunderstanding, the facade the laundry had built around itself was destined to fall. It was a miracle the Jenga-like tower had lasted for so long: a smart man would have only bet on it lasting days or weeks at the most, but to measure the longevity in months was surely madness.

Yet the madness grew, until all it took to shatter the illusion was not the equivalent of a pin-prick to a balloon or a well-timed breeze, but silence.

It was a rather insignificant Wednesday evening in March when I came home. To the laundry, no day in which it would be cleaned was insignificant, and to me, it was significant for different reasons.

"Phew, it's warm outside." I said to nobody in particular.

It is, my laundry agreed. But I did not hear it's words because I didn't think clothes could speak.

For the next several minutes, I did exactly as the laundry predicted: I got changed, I watched Home & Away, and I saw a bit of the news, all the while packing-up the grocery shopping I had brought-in and sorting food items into their rightful places. When I had realized what time it was, I started to put on my shoes to go back out to meet somebody, and that was the first sign to the laundry that this was no ordinary night.

Why is he putting on his shoes?, the laundry wondered.

It reasoned that a small deviation from the norm wasn't cause for alarm. Then it saw me getting my cap, a gesture it knew was a precursor to leaving, and it panicked.

Wait, why is he putting on his cap? He's come back from work already, and it isn't a keyboard or dancing day! What is going on?!

The laundry started shouting then, but I could not hear it. It could have been screaming at a decibel level to rival that of a jet engine, but it was at the wrong frequency – beyond my hearing – so was about as useful as a snail-mail letter from the other side of the world, getting subsequently lost in a freak storm as it travelled over the ocean.

As I grabbed my keys the laundry's protests continued to go unheeded.

STOP! WAIT!

I reached my door, turned the knob to leave.

NO! DON'T GO!

*thud*

Silence.

I returned some 3 hours later, the sun having set a while before, feeling tired. The laundry, whether hoarse from all the shouting or mute because the illusion it had created of our happy bond had been all but shattered, sat still in the silence, using the darkness as a cloak from the outside world that made it oblivious even to my return.

I went to my room, took off my shoes, and then came to the laundry. I turned on the lights so I could see what it was doing, and even with the security blanket of night banished, the laundry refused to say a word. It had learned something there, in the silence of that insignificant Wednesday in March. And it could see now my indifference as I sorted the whites from the colours, that I regarded the task as a chore, and that I had a life outside of these walls. It learned it's place, and that it would always play second fiddle to whatever or whoever it was that could draw me out of my apartment.

And as the sweet lullaby of the moving water sent the laundry into the slumber it oh so used to enjoy, it found it much easier to drop the idea that we ever had something special between us, because it had never existed at all.

The man, 28-yr old Gerard Ryan, suffered severe head trauma and memory loss. Ambulance workers at the scene did not find his injuries life-threatening, but had him taken to Wellington Hospital as a precaution.

"It's about on-par with what we see this time of year." said St John’s Ambulance volunteer Greg King. "Maybe a little crazier than normal with all the news about the recession and the global credit crisis. They head down to their local to drown their worries and search for answers at the bottom of a bottle, but all this poor guy got was a bump on the head and some [...] horrible luck, if you know what I mean."

The morning started-off like any other: wake-up minutes before the alarm goes off, open my eyes just wide enough to glimpse the red glowing LEDs of my alarm clock, convince myself that I can sneak in a few more minutes of sleep, then wake-up again some time later to over-played pop music and the horrible realization that I am now running late.

Fast-forward about 2 hours and I've just made my way into work (EDS, Electronic Data Systems). Yawns from the others in this elevator make it evident that I'm not the only one with a little sleep deprivation, even after having returned from a 3-day weekend; a fact that gives me some solace.

I get off the elevator, as does fellow workmate Gerard who I didn't notice before through all the yawning.

Gerard, in short, is probably the whitest foreigner I know. He's of Irish descent, but born and raised in a bunch of African countries, most of which I couldn't find on a map without the help of Wikipedia.

Seeing as I'm ahead of him, I have the honour of opening the security doors to our floor; a task made slightly more interesting thanks to this trick I learned from Simon Gow. Several years ago he showed me what you could to with a crotch-height proximity sensor when the security tag is in a front pocket. I've since adapted that trick for a security tag that hangs closer to the left side of my ass. With the only witness being Gerard (we started working here at the same time, so he's as used to my antics as I am to his), I moved my hip to within millimetres of the keypad/sensor and started a little rubbing motion. The keypad cried uncle when it made its little beep, and with that the sliding doors opened the way for us.

"Dude," said Gerard, "I am never touching that keypad again."

Our floor isn't even half-way up the 13 story building, and when you're surrounded and dwarfed by the neighbouring buildings, nothing below the 7th will give you much of a view of anything. The open-plan nature of the desk arrangements helps you to not feel so boxed-in, and I happen to have a stellar view of the neighbouring multi-story car parks - yes, plural - which I guess is a step up from where I was previously: beside a pillar, a coat hanger, and a divider that separated my personal space from that of the water cooler's.

I make my way to my desk, greet the parked cars, and turned-on my computer.

A personal computer nowadays doesn't need to take a long time to start up. A work computer however, loaded with the obligatory firewall, virus scanner, software drive encryption, and whatever other run-on-startup stuff the company sees fit to put on it, brings you back to the days when you could make a cup of coffee whenever you booted the computer. Since I'm not a coffee drinker, I'm left with fewer options than most.

The wait can be made even longer if, after startup, there are some security patches or other upgrades being pushed to the computer. Today just happens to be one of those days. I keep spinning on the chair, taking random moments to stop, take a quick look at the progress on the screen, and measure the passing time in animated hourglasses.

Finally, patches have been installed, and I'm greeted with the completion window:

[Installation is now finished. Please restart the...]

Bah!

2. Bloatware

When I was first introduced to the term 'bloatware', I started thinking 'Jabba the Hut', and about having a gigantic green alien slug thing sitting on your hard drive with slaves chained to him and a monster pit below (I'm sure a computer equivalent of slaves and monster pits exists somewhere...). The first order of business for today is to install a Jabba-sized program onto my work computer.

Today's bloatware is a group of programs: a development kit and accompanying test servers supposed to make work on my project (which is based in the States, and has some NZ folk like me contracted to them) a lot easier.

So I started the installation program, and found that it was about 2 gigabytes in size, and half of it (all the updates I wanted, at roughly 1.2 gigabytes in size) had to be downloaded from the Internet.

Fine, I thought, it's all the company's bandwidth anyway.

I hit the button to start the download and installation, and the program estimated it would take 4 hours to complete.

Cool, it'll be done within the day.

The morning so far has been on the slow side, so for the past hour and a bit I've just been replying to e-mails accumulated over the 3-day weekend (of which only 2 of them were intended for me; the rest were some kind of general for-everyone newsletters or automated e-mail notifications), and running this test program Gerard wrote to test another program he wrote for his project.

I didn't get all the details of what it was he created, but the test program was supposed to make 300 connections from my computer and, with all of them, attempt to connect to the server program he wrote running on his computer.

When he wrote it in Australia last week (some work-related trip in which he did nothing, and the second time work has paid to send him overseas to do nothing), the connections had to make a nice long distance trip: from my PC, to the company network, and out to wherever he was staying in Sydney through his VPN connection. I don't know if it was the journey or the program, but most of the connections failed, and he was left scratching his head trying to figure-out what went wrong.

The IM conversation went something like this:

Gerard: check your e-mail
Me: Got it. You want me to run this? What's it do?
Gerard: just a test program. supposed to make 300 connections all at once to my pc
Me: 300!? Damn. OK, I'll give it a shot.

(some time later...)

Gerard: so howd it go?
Me: Umm, so what's this line of output I'm looking at?
Gerard: its the number of sockets that didnt connect. whats it say?
Me: 200
Gerard: what?! let me check

(some more time later...)

Gerard: there, just sent another email, try that. i might've had the ip address wrong
Em: OK

(another period of time later...)

Em: 250
Gerard: BS!!

Since he's here now, we ran a local network test, and it seems to have helped some, but not entirely. Either way, he is now happy with the result, gloating in the current IM conversation that he can now rule the world with it:

Gerard: with my new found query timeout power i shall rule the world...one result set at a time
Me: Connections still drop like your mum on a Friday night though.
Me: Gonna fix that? Or you just passing it off as a VPN thing?
Gerard: drop?
Gerard: they FAIL TO CONNECT
Me: ie: dropped
Me: Your mum never fails to connect

In IT, we're all about intelligent conversation.

3. Blackout

Roughly half-way done with downloading the updated files for the installation. Toilet!

I was looking at myself in the mirror, figuring-out if I needed to get a haircut, when all of a sudden the normal ambient building noises died. And so did the lights.

"What the hell?" I said aloud.

It took me a moment to realize that it must be a power cut of some sort, and then a shorter moment to realize that I was in the toilet, without lights, and that without them I couldn't see centimetres in-front of my face; it couldn't have become any darker if I closed my eyes. Heck, I even tried closing my eyes to see if I could make it darker. I couldn't.

At least I wasn't on the toilet or anything. OK, time to get out of here.

In all this thinking I hadn't moved from where I was, so I drew-up an imaginary map of where I would be in the room, turned around to face where I thought the exit would be, and walked forwards, slowly. I held my hand out in-front of me and started thinking about some very strange things:

Firstly, what are the chances of being caught-out taking a dump during a power cut? There had to be somebody in the building that had happened to: of all 13 floors, statistics surely must've caught-up with someone. Whoever that was, my sympathies went out to them.

Secondly, I really hoped my outstretched hand wouldn't find anything that wasn't the door along the way.

Luckily my hand found the door handle without first finding nasty surprises, so I pulled the door open and made it into another unlit corridor, although this one had the benefit of a small grate at the other end where natural light from the offices and the outdoors behind it marked its position. I walked towards the light, slightly more confident of where I was headed.

Once back in the offices, evidence that the power cut wasn't localized to the toilet was visible by the blank computer screens and lack of ceiling lights. Spirits were high and many jokes were thrown around, many of them about how we no longer have to do any work. When I found my workmates, I joined their conversation and gave them my 2 cents.

"Guess where I was when the power went out?"

I went back to my desk when that conversation ran out of steam, and then picked-up the pace when I remembered that the installer was still in the middle of downloading over a gigabyte worth of files for the installation. I reached my desk in a mild panic, which then turned into a severe annoyance as I saw the screen was as blank as everybody else's and the lights on the machine were not blinking spastically like they normally do.

Dammit!

Power was restored to mixed reactions. Mine was to withhold my anger as I turned-on my computer and restarted the installation of the Jabba-sized software.

Computer on, installation program restarted, and I am glad to see that it can continue from where it was before the power cut. I let it continue on its merry way while I made my merry way out of the building to meet Melissa, Glen, and Sam for lunch, at Dawaats.

4. Gender imbalance

Something I learned from full-time work that could apply to any profession, is that office workers (in NZ anyway) sure love their curry. In my first 2 months, work had 3 team lunches for various occasions, each held at one Indian restaurant or another. I've even heard that the Ministry of Economic Development has a list of top-10 Indian restaurants in Wellington. Dawaats was somewhere in the top 3.

The love of curry seems to have rubbed-off on us because Melissa, Glen, Sam and I keep coming back here. It might have something to do with the weather though: when it was sunny and warm, Melissa would ask us all to join her at Civic Square. The last time we did that, we had single-digit temperatures and we kept moving to warmer spots whenever the shadows of buildings and trees crept up on us. Eating indoors has really helped in that respect.

I'm the last to arrive. The other 3 are already seated, looking at their menus. I don't know why Melissa is looking at her menu because she always gets the Butter Chicken due to some aversion to spiciness. Sam on the other hand is a bit more adventurous; it's almost like he only has a handful of working tastebuds.

"Hi guys." I say as I take the seat next to Melissa, evening-out the numbers on both sides of the table.

"Hey." Glen.

"Hey Em." Sam.

"Hi sweetie." umm, I don't need to explain who that is.

"So what's up?" I ask.

"My work is going under," says Sam, "so I gotta start looking for another job."

"Oh damn," I reply, "right on the back of your dad's work going down too."

"Everything's going down." adds Melissa.

"Just like your mum." says Glen, looking at everybody and yet nobody in particular.

"Ooo, good one." says Sam, and he offers out his fist for a fist lock with Glen.

"Good to see you're still in high spirits Sam." as I fist-lock with Glen.

Melissa hides a laugh and then starts her story about how she's all super busy at her work. We discover that it's mainly because when someone at work asks her if she has some time to do another assignment, she always says yes.

"Melissa," starts Glen, "you gotta learn to say 'no'."

"Your mum never says no." I say to Glen.

"Ooo, go Em." says Sam. Sam-Em fist-lock.

"Bastard." says Glen as he looks my way and preps his fist for the Glen-Em fist-lock.

There's now more smiling and pent-up laughter in Melissa's expression as she continues her story while braving the 'your mum' minefield us guys have laid before her. We can visibly see the thinking strains on her face as she carefully chooses her words lest she spark another insult about someone's mother.

Eventually we ordered our food, Melissa finished her work story epic, and Glen managed to tell a story about his work which I can't quite remember. Either way, everybody else's work story beat my one of having to install 2 gigabytes worth of development software with over half of it being downloaded over half of the working day. Then again, knowing that programmer work stories never really fit well with non-programmer crowds, I pushed that story out of my mind and grasped for other events of my day.

"Guess where I was when the power went out?"

When the food arrived, story time took a back seat to chewing and drinking. Melissa looked pleased with her butter chicken, and Sam looked more than pleased with whatever it was he got that was 7 shades of red darker and spicier than my meal. Sam and I also ordered Mango Lassis, this wonderful mango and yoghurt blend that goes so well with curry. He and I were shocked the other 2 didn't get something similar, and so we clinked our glasses together in acknowledgement of the veteran spicy-food-eater status of the other person.

Glen was chilling with his water, and Melissa didn't seem to have any drink until she asked Glen to pass the water bottle.

"Pass the water Glen?" she asked.

"Here." he said, picking it up with his free hand and passing it to her.

I watched her open the bottle out of the corner of my eye because the last time we were here, she had some difficulties with the opening/closing mechanism, and I had to teach her how it worked. It became obvious that she didn't remember the lesson because she was trying to open it backwards, and it caught our attention.

"Oh my God Melissa, I showed you how to open that last time!" I cried.

"Look, here." said Sam, pulling himself away from his meal to demonstrate how to open the bottle.

"I can't remember!" said Melissa defensively, "It's so hard!"

Glen, Sam and I looked at each other, not saying a thing. But our eyes met, all confirming what we had heard.

"So," I said, breaking the silence, "who's gonna pick that one up?"

"You can have it." says Glen.

"Nah, if I do I'll meet quota, and it's only midday."

"Fine," said Sam, "I'll take it: 'That's what she said'."

Em-Sam fist-lock.

Glen-Sam fist-lock.

Melissa's laughing/smiling expression now held an element of shame: shame at believing she was the only sensible person at the table, shame for us guys for not being more civilized company, shame at herself for making such friends and sharing a table with them.

"I can't take you boys anywhere!"

5. Fail

Back from lunch, well-fed and still grinning on the inside for all the grief we caused Melissa, I give the keypad a far-too-enthusiastic bum rub to make the security doors open. I walk slowly towards my desk as the full stomach is limiting my complete range of movement, and sit down on my chair equally slowly so I don't break any neighbouring internal organs.

I give the mouse a quick shake to wake the computer from its half-slumber. I don't have a screensaver configured on this thing as the graphics card is some sort of onboard crud that doesn't do 3D very well. I don't know if you've seen the Flurry screensaver (it's a very simple colourful screensaver), but the graphics card on my work computer isn't even good enough to run that. Heck, the computer I had before this one - a banged-up laptop bent at one corner, some burn damage roughly where the disk drive is located, and about as much memory as a goldfish - could run Flurry. This computer now was one of the first of the replacements, and so I thought everybody would have the same thing. Annoyingly, Gerard's replacement computer had a dedicated video card, and could run Flurry just fine. The word 'shortchanged' doesn't begin to describe my envy sometimes.

So I gave the mouse a shake, typed-in my password to unlock the computer, and...

omfg.

[An error was encountered during installation...]

A rush of emotions - most associated with causes for murder - filled my thoughts. I don't know how long it ran before getting this error, but the optimist in me was giving it about 5 minutes worth before choking and dying. The pessimist in me was looking for the nearest sharp object so I could kill myself.

I restarted the installation, again, glad that it continued from wherever it left off, again.

The download had finally completed. I had passed the time by working on my other programming projects - not work-related ones because what I was installing was the tools I needed to do my work - and following the links Gerard kept sending my way. Links to stuff.co.nz articles, links to Slashdot, and other general spam. He's become the workplace king of spam, and he even spams those not at EDS.

So spam is one thing Gerard has become known for. Another thing you quickly learn is that he has this deep hatred of all things Microsoft. I don't know what that company ever did to him as a child, but sometimes he makes it sound as if Bill Gates personally signed the paperwork for an assassination of Gerard's family.

By the time the installation program started installing all it had downloaded, James from the .NET team on the other side of the building (.NET being a Microsoft technology, kind of like a culmination of programming languages and frameworks used to build programs for Windows) invites me into an IM conversation in which Gerard has been doing one of his anti-M$ rants.

James: hey Em.
Gerard: and look what it did to vista, it just raised a comps minimum specs to run the same things that it did on XP
Me: Hey James
Me: Oh hell, he's at it again?
James: yep
Me: ... He does this every 3.5 working hours
Gerard: and i like the WPF [Windows Presentation Foundation, used to build graphical user interfaces], just when it's not on my computer :P
James: you hate everything that is Microsoft, even without a reason
Gerard: is that true?
Me: Yes
James: It seems so
James: Haha, the ayes have it
Me: Democracy FTW
Gerard: I also used to like DirectX, but now its just become a bloated slut
Me: Kinda like your mum
James: zing!

Installation complete. I decided to give the new program a go, see what it's all about and what all my hard drive space went into. Before I could get that far, the program complained about not having an installed licence. I took the detour in stride (what kind of programmer would I be if I didn't have patience) and went digging for licensing information in the e-mails that the US tech lead had sent regarding that.

Licence file found and installed, but by now my patience had run dry: I've waited all of the work day installing something that should've taken half the time, during which it has caused me grief and frustration, 1 (maybe 2) gray hairs, and had me contemplating suicide.

"Eff it!" I shouted, "I'm going home!"

6. Epilogue

2 days later we were told that the project no longer has enough funding to keep us NZ guys beyond the end of the month, which happened to be this weekend.

All that time installing that program, and it didn't even last 4 days.

On the days I'm not typing cryptic words into a text file to try coax the computer into doing what you want it to, it's a never-ending cycle of trial and error, installing and uninstalling, victories and defeats. There's this saying that 80% of the work that needs to be done is completed in 20% of the time. If ever there were an industry where that saying holds true, this one would be it.

Regardless of its short intended life, I held on to the program in-case the the US team came back to me with some questions. It did become useful for about 2 weeks afterwards and didn't see much more action beyond that.

James has since left EDS and is now undertaking charity work, leaving me to face the full force of Gerard's spam.

Sam found a new job which is located in the building right next to his old one.

Melissa has become too embarrassed to take Sam, Glen, or I, in any combination, to lunch. She no longer invites us anywhere, citing extreme amounts of work as the reason.

Gerard eventually touched the keypad. I still take frequent digs at his mum.

A literal and metaphorical dark cloud has descended over the country.

With the end of the All Blacks' World Cup campaign, both the people and the weather have entered a mourning period that it seems we can never escape from. At the final whistle, shock overtook everyone's thoughts, grown men were reduced to tears, and if the statistics are to be believed, domestic abuse incidents would have shot through the roof in the hours afterwards.

We all handled the grief differently. My mum dipped into the sugar-laden high-fat dessert she had reserved for dinner, while my dad is now trying to justify whether time spent over the next few years watching rugby games will be time well spent at all, and if it is even worth renewing the Sky subscription to continue watching the Super 14. As for my brother, his faith in the game is now teetering over a precipice as the French win shoved, pushed, and kicked him into this precarious position. As he rocks back-and-forth over that chasm like a mental patient might rock back-and-forth on a bed as they hug their knees to their chest, you can hear him saying the same thing over and over again, the syllables in time with his backward and forward motions: 1999... 1999...

It wasn't only the people that were affected, but the weather also had some empathy for our plight. The normally sunny spring days left us on that Sunday morning, and turned to grey skies and torrential rain. The occasional lightning and thunder strikes acted like parts of a 21 gun salute at a military funeral, further adding to the feeling that somebody everyone knew has just died.

A day into the aftermath, a Monday no less, and the hollow feeling still remains. The rain continued through the night and heavy rain warnings are now being issued to all of the most-at-risk suburbs. Trains were only at half capacity on the way in to work as a majority of the workforce, my dad included, took an emotional sick day off. Looking around on my floor, at the few who did brave the weather's tears to get here, there are no smiles, nor do I fool myself into believing that a smile exists within 30 miles of anywhere in this water-drenched sun-deprived city.

It's probably just as well that I have such a simple job this afternoon: to take part in an international conference call filled-up with very sleepy, very tired Americans.

Last week our American-based work colleagues requested one of us in New Zealand to sit-in during some web hosting failover testing, which by their time would've been 1am of some obscure morning. By NZ time however, it translates to 5pm of some obscure afternoon. I drew the short straw, so here I am.

The graveyard-like silence in the building made the low hum of the air recycling system very audible, feeling almost as loud as a car engine's lullaby. I was hoping for the voices on the conference call to bring some variations to the silence, but all I heard was the static that built-up from having the signal come from (almost) the other side of the planet. There were people on the line - the nice voice lady told me some 25 others were in the conference call - but I guess 1am doesn't exactly inspire the vocal cords to make noises other than short, low-decibel affirmations and grunts. Maybe that's what it feels like to be an undead zombie: it's 1am, all the time.

Once the testing got underway, those who managed to speak more complete sentences revealed a few more details about how they were all feeling. They were sleepy for sure, and on a scale of 1 to 10, attendance was at a surprisingly high 9. On that same scale however, enthusiasm peaked at -3.

During the lulls in-between tests, I managed to read some news from a few websites, and when the news ran out - and the recycling of short-term memories kicked-in, reminding me that this is a tragic, tragic day - I pulled-out my current library book, but never got to read it as I instead started to think about better, brighter days...

2. Engagement party

2 months ago...

It's a late Friday afternoon as I leave work and start walking towards the Fisherman's Table; venue for Giles' and Sheree's engagement party, which also doubled as Sheree's birthday party. I concentrated on that destination, and let my legs and internal map of Wellington take me there on autopilot. Doing so gives me some time to take notice of the minor changes that take place around here. Case in point: the sandwich boards that line the walkway, as eternal and constant as barnacles on a pier.

Here's one for Wishbone, claiming that their food is "...made with 100% love". Eww.

And now here's one for Michael Hill jeweller, advertising a diamond ring for only $13695. For something that claims to be only this price, I'm sure I must've misread it, so I spend that brief moment before I pass the board, searching for a decimal point that was likely cast aside several decades ago by the laws, subsections and paragraphs of economics.

"Emanuel?" says a familiar voice somewhere behind me.

Although not familiar enough as I start wondering... where have I heard that voice before? The answer was a mere turn-of-the-head away.

I turned my head left. Whoops, wrong way. I quickly turned my head right.

"Siobhan?" I say just as surprised.

And insert a run-of-the-mill "I haven't seen you in ages" conversation here, an unfortunately short one which takes us from one end of Courtenay Place to the other.

I met Siobhan several years ago during one of those multi-week preparations for Confirmation; a church event that's right up there with Baptism and Communion, except this time you're old enough to remember if they dip your head in water (not that they do that to you for this ceremony) and you're old enough to have an opinion.

She's a short girl (only because she hasn't really grown since we first met), with curly brown hair and glasses. It's none of those things that make you remember her though, but rather her positive and forthcoming attitude, and the uncanny ability to keep a conversation going with even the dullest of people. She also happens to be the best friend to one of my neighbours, so she was never that far away. Although considering I can count the number of meetings we've had since Confirmation on one hand, the distance between us would be better measured in canyons than houses.

"Oh, before I go," she says as we reach the end of Courtenay place before having to go our separate ways, "you should come along to my play."

"Play?"

"Yeah, our French club is doing a play on Tintin."

"Tintin? Wow, that brings back memories. I remember reading all the comics when I was in primary school."

"Yeah, it's on..." and at this point a rather loud bus passes by making me miss all the details. "OK then, bye!" and she was gone.

I didn't get a word of that. I said to myself as I continued my walk to Fisherman's Table. Ah crap.

I didn't have to hit myself for not coming-up with ways of remembering whatever it was that Siobhan told me; the wind did a pretty good job of that, blowing so strongly it sent enough flying debris into my face that the total volume of all those stray objects amounted to your average Acme anvil. Not the large ones, but rather the smaller kind used by Wile E. Coyote in his eternal pursuit of the Road Runner; never large enough to kill Coyote when the contraption went horribly wrong, but always enough to make him look like a complete idiot when you look back on it.

That's me, always a fool in hindsight. Hindsight should start some sort of loyalty program. That way, I'd at least get something for my troubles on a fortnightly basis.

By the time I made it to Fisherman's Table, the night had removed all of the natural light from this little corner of the world. Only man-made light remained, shining from towers, houses and vehicles several kilometres away, reflecting onto the dark and almost invisible waves of the bay. The Fisherman's Table doesn't have much in the way of neighbours, making it the only large light source on this side of the harbour; a lighthouse against the darkness, drawing hungry travellers to it's doorstep instead of warning ships against landfall.

Once inside, I immediately noticed the large crowd of people that is bound to contain Giles and Sheree in it somewhere. Having looked at my watch before going through the front door, I was afraid that I'd show-up too early, but the number of people already here made me feel casually late instead.

I spot Giles sitting on a couch and wave hello as I approach.

"Hi Em." says Giles, pivoting his hand at the wrist to make a wave without lifting the rest of his arm.

He continues conversation with the guys sitting next to him, wearing a genuine smile whose source I can only guess at being either the subject matter of the conversation (The Simpsons Movie, and who wouldn't smile at that) or that this is his engagement party and he'll smile if he wants to.

"Eeeeehhhmmm!" Now it's my turn to smile because I know of only one person who can shove that many soft E's into my name. Sheree, standing with Janna and Glen by a high table, waved me over. I obeyed.

"Hi guys," I say to Janna and Glen, "Sheree." You can tell it's a special occasion tonight, not just because Glen has made his way down here from wherever he is based up north, but also because Sheree is wearing those shoes that elevate her eyeline from my collar bone to my chin.

We don't get to say too much as one of the staff pulls her away to tell her something. Glen and I eavesdrop for a bit and hear that our tables, 3 large ones at the end of the restaurant, are ready and awaiting her party.

"So where we gonna sit?" Glen asks.

"As much as I'd like to sit by the birthday girl," I tell him, "I've learned that big events like this never give me the chance." And as I say that, the table that will be occupied by Giles and Sheree, a large circular one, is filled-up faster than I could say, "I told you so."

The second table was occupied by what looked like Sheree's workmates from Whitcoulls, leaving the rest of us (which for the most part seemed like the Tawa bunch) at the last table which was just as close to the round one as the second, but still left me feeling uncomfortably far from the bride and groom to be.

Our table filled-up the slowest as the later arrivals finally came in. I picked a seat in the middle of the table with my back to the window, denying me an easy look at the night-time Wellington skyline, meaning I got to face a white wall with 3 simple pieces of artwork instead.

To my left: Glen, Janelle, Claire. Opposite me and left: Matthew, Janna (whose drunkenness tally now sits at a much healthier 5 / 16, or 31.25%), John.

Opposite and right of me were Deborah and Kahiwa, soon to start talking about Harry Potter, to which I promptly covered my ears.

"So have you read Harry Potter yet?" Deborah asked, noticing my reaction.

"I did pre-order it and pick-up my copy earlier this week, but no I haven't read it yet." I tell them, hands still firmly over ears.

"OK then. We were just about to talk about it, but don't want to spoil it for you." Which was mighty considerate of them, because seeing as my hands did little to prevent me from understanding them now, they'd do little to protect me from any life-altering spoilers.

"Hey Em, Glen," says a pleasantly accented voice to my right belonging to none other than Lydia, "how are you guys?"

"Hey Lids, I'm alright." says Glen.

Lydia, who has, in her own words, 'stood me up' for our last 2 lunches was deserving of a different response to this common pleasantry.

"Ouch," I say, "and there's the sound of my heart breaking."

"Heheh, awww, I'm sorry Em, we'll try again some other time." she says as she pats/rubs my back both condescendingly and reassuringly.

"How come I don't get a back rub?" asks Glen.

You still have a heart, I imagine saying to him, I've got less than 30 seconds to live.

She and the later arrivals filled-up the rest of the table. To my right: Lydia, Sarah, Jamie, and another Deborah at the end. Opposite and right of me: Deborah, Kahiwa, and Stacey.

When Stacey arrived, those 3 girls took off their coats in unison, revealing dresses that in turn revealed enough skin that I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes above their necks for the rest of the night. I turned to my left and saw that Glen was making no such effort.

Then the waiter came around, taking everyone's orders. Matthew and Deborah were devising a way to get extra chips without having to pay as much, whereas I was in some sort of I'll-eat-everything mood and didn't really care about saving money when asked if I wanted fries with that.

"So that's the shrimp cocktail for starters and seafood lasagne for mains." said our waiter. "Any drink?"

I pointed to some random thing on the drinks menu.

"Do you also want a half-plate of fries?"

"Yes."

"And all-you-can-eat salads?"

"Yes."

And a foot-long chicken fillet sub?

Yes.

What can I say, I'm really hungry.

Whatever I ate, Janelle definitely didn't approve. Everytime she saw me eating, she turned away more disgusted with me than ever:

"What's that you're eating Em?"

"Shrimp cocktail."

*Janelle mimes putting finger down throat and puking*

The second time:

"What's that got in it Em?"

"Seafood lasagne: fish something, scallops, and some other unidentifiable mollusc."

*Janelle mimes putting finger down throat and puking*

And it didn't take long for me to learn that I shouldn't have pointed at any old drink: the drink killed my manliness as it came in the girliest-looking champagne/brandy glass I have ever seen, with a cherry that exuded even more effeminate vibes than Brokeback Mountain. Coupled with my hair which desperately needed a cut, all my arguments that night fell flat as they usually ended with me either taking a swig from this most-womanly glass, or pulling hair back from covering my ears, or both.

Hindsight once again taught me a harsh lesson, kicking me in the balls, replacing them with ovaries, then kicking me in the ovaries.

"What's that you're drinking Em?" asked Janelle.

"The worst decision I have ever made."

*Janelle mimes putting finger down throat and puking*

Beyond the loss of my testosterone, the night was a night well spent: Lydia trying to spoil Harry Potter for which I promptly noogied her (noogie? noogy? For my spelling's sake, I'm glad she only attempted it once) and the girls making comments on Sarah's short and leaving-much-to-the-imagination coat which left her feeling like a cheap 50c stripper; comments which they quickly recanted and reworded, lifting her spirits to that of a more expensive $2.50 version.

"I love what university has done to us," I say to Glen loud enough so that everyone at the table can hear, "the conversations are much more intelligent."

Less like Friends, and more like Frasier on crack.

The only time I really got to talk with Sheree was when everybody started leaving. And it wasn't a lot either, just her reminding me that she's only got 1 more Friday at Whitcoulls, marking this night as the beginning of the end of the only perk my job ever had: a friend (outside of work) within 100m.

"I feel kinda bad." I say to her. "I should be happy that you're moving-on from retail work into something better paid and more enjoyable, but only half of me feels like that." Try to ever ask me for an objective opinion on a decision that'll put an ocean between my friends and I, and all you'll get is my biased and honest response.

"Awww, that's 'cause you're a good friend Em." she replies, hugging me.

"How come I don't get a hug?" says Glen nearby.

"I'll see you next week then Sheree?"

"Yeah."

That pretty-much concluded the night for me. Everyone was headed to... I forgot. I tagged-along with those who were walking there, until I had to make my own way home. We stopped only twice along the way: once for the girls to mess-around on a playground, and the other time for Lydia to catch a ride home with Jamie and Sarah.

I stood part-way between Lydia and the rest of the group as they continued walking ahead - acting as a human breadcrumb trail should Lydia's plans for a fast-track home fall flat and she needed to find her way back to us - my ears trained on conversations taking place on either side of me.

Glen was telling the girls about some sort of 1(guy)-to-many(girl) slavery plan he wished to implement, with a business model similar to that Chrisco Christmas hamper thing. I admit that line of conversation drew most of my attention away from Lydia, meaning I only caught specific keywords from her.

Glen: "It'll work like a rotational schedule, with like week-long shifts..."

Lydia: "......(something something)..... w00t!"

Holy crap, Lydia just said 'w00t'.

I think I'm in love.

3. The last Friday ever

1-and-a-half months ago...

Another Friday night, another working week is over. Another after-work Friday talking with Sheree as she stands behind the counter at Whitcoulls, counting-down the hours before she leaves this place forever. And another week of Wishbone's sandwich board revealing a vital ingredient in their secret recipe: "Wishbone cookies are made with butter and love". More eww.

I've spent a good portion of my Fridays after work over the passed year-and-a-half to 'bother' Sheree as she continues her shift at Whitcoulls Lambton Quay. Sometimes when she was busy herself, I'd help in what little ways I could: stacking calendars, removing labels from books, rolling posters, and arranging stickers.

Ever since she joined university during my second year, Sheree has never been too far away. She used to read me entries from her biology textbooks like a mother would read bedtime stories to her child (although I doubt the adventures of the mitral and tricuspid valves could ever compete with the likes of Grimm's Fairytales), and sometimes I could assist her when she took a mild interest in computer science and maths. Between classes, she was never that far away, and over the years I became quite used to just knowing she was around.

Being able to continue our geographical closeness was sort of like a bonus once I left university and started my first full-time job. But today would be the end of it.

Having come to Whitcoulls so often as a non-paying customer, the floor on which Sheree works has become a very familiar sight, and I'm quite confident in my knowledge of the general placement of items on this floor. From where I stand by the counter, pens and art supplies line the wall and shelves which I face, children's stories take-up residence on the opposite side of the floor, and directly behind me is a display cabinet of planners/diaries/calendars that seem almost as ridiculously priced as that diamond ring from last week.

I'm actually surprised that this place hasn't been a more common setting in my dreams. Although the only time that happened, this whole place was blown-up.

"Thanks for coming out to my engagement party Em. You're coming to the wedding right?"

"You should already know the answer to that!" I reply, almost too defensively. "I'm already planning to write about it and include it in my stories a month or 2 afterwards. I'll be kind of like the literary wedding photographer, except the photos would take longer to develop."

"And there'll be no photos."

"And there'll be no photos." I admit. "That makes me pretty crappy photographer then."

I continue about how the style of that story will depend a bit on the kind of books I'm reading at the time, explaining to her that I've noticed I draw a lot of the general 'feel' of my own stories from the books of authors I'm currently reading. She then tells me about something that they were taught in her English classes, a little philosophical thing about how our own ideas always stem from the ideas of others.

"I mean, if you haven't read poetry before," she says, putting the question to me, "would you ever know how to write poetry yourself?"

"Hmm, I dunno," I reply thoughtfully, "but I don't usually think in 3-word 5-word 3-word stanzas."

"No! Not haikus!"

"Well, what about 'There was a man from Nantucket'?"

"Not limericks either! Waaaaaaa..." and with that she brings her head down onto the counter, pretending to knock the stupidity that associating with me injects into one's head.

"Oh," I say, revelation striking me, "you mean like Yeats and shit!?"

See, I can be cultured too.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
...
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

"Huh?" she says, looking at me weirdly after I recited the above.

"That's Yeats, one of his poems."

But Sheree continued staring and blinking absent-mindedly. Maybe she didn't know that poem, or maybe she was surprised to hear it come from me. Regardless, it was my turn to bang my head on the counter, except my portion of the counter was home to many bits of stationery. I mean, I could've... if I had some sort of pencil-stabbing-into-my-eye fetish.

I settled for sighing loudly instead.

I hung-around for a long time. Night once again fell on what was becoming a good day: no girly drink, no long hair, no disapproving Janelle, etc etc.

When the poetry ran out, she picked-up rubber bands and taught me how to fire them by wrapping them around my thumb, aiming with my forefinger, and making a firing mechanism with my pinky or ring finger. When that got boring, she tried to spoil Harry Potter for me (although this time I only warned her about rubbing her head in). Afterwards, she gave me a new long-term goal:

"You should write a novel Em." she just said, out of nowhere. "And I can be your editor."

"Eh?" She's kidding right?

"I'll give you 2 months to come-up with an idea, then you can run them by me and I'll pick one on the 3rd. I want a complete draft in 2 years, and it published within a year after that."

She said it quite authoritatively, and I couldn't find a trace of jest in her requests at all. I was still raising an eyebrow at the whole idea, so just decided to play along, see if there was a punch-line in it somewhere.

I still couldn't find one.

Hangman was the next game we played to pass the time.

She gave me what seemed like an infinite amount of tries. After I used-up half the alphabet, and still nowhere near guessing what the word could be, she stopped drawing the stick figure in the noose and instead started drawing fish in the sea. After another several letters, she moved from fish to adding a sun and clouds. If the alphabet were any larger and I kept guessing wrong, she would've drawn an entire ecosystem complete with forest, mountains and tributaries, revolving around this sad picture of a stick man at the gallows, kept alive by his missing left leg.

What the hell kind of word could this be?

Just when I had started to give-up and was willing to let the stick man die in this 2B pencil rendition of the Elysium Fields, a miracle occurred, granting that stick man another chance at life.

"Oh, umm..." said Sheree, counting-off the letters in this mystery word. "Whoops, that's not how it's spelt."

"What!?" And this is the girl who wants to proof-read a draft novel. "Sure you don't need a co-editor?"

Soon enough, it was time for me to go.

Gathering my jacket and bag, and putting on my headphones even though I won't remember to start the MP3 player for another 10 minutes, I slowly made my way towards the stairs that would take me back down to ground floor, and ultimately, away from here. I glanced back over my shoulder to where Sheree stood behind her counter against a backdrop of bookstore bits and pieces.

The picture was all waves and sad smiles.

And then I left.

4. Dialtone

The failover testing finished sooner than expected, much to the delight of it's sleep-deprived participants, and just when I was finally starting to grasp the nuances of the zombie language too.

I headed home, still feeling a bit down. Although the All Blacks' loss was starting to fade, the negative enthusiasm from the conference call managed to make its way across several thousand kilometres of phone cable and rub-off on me.

When the train guard asked to see our tickets, I reached into my jacket pocket and found instead a rubber band, the same one Sheree gave me to practice my rubber band shooting. It's not as if I kept it around as a souvenir or anything, I just forgot to remove it (you should've seen the Extra chewing gum I left in there a while back, made the words 'biological specimen' come to mind).

I wrapped the rubber band around my hand exactly like I was taught, and fired it at the seat in-front of me. As the rubber band fell, I started adding to the 2 major events I had just re-lived, convincing myself that things will somehow work out for the better.

For example, Siobhan's play (which I managed to get to after getting her number from my neighbour) turned-out to be another good night. As well as not having remembered the details of the event in our first encounter, I almost forgot that she said it was being performed by her French club. I was afraid I was going to be there by myself, watching a play in a language I didn't understand. Kind of like opera really.

But just before the play started, I saw Lydia and co. in the audience. I went to her, and was able to sit with her, Kahiwa, and Stacey. So now the situation was that I was going to be sitting by people I knew, watching a play in a language none of us really understood. Kind of like opera with friends I guess.

And as for up-and-coming events this week, I have paintball as part of a 'team building exercise', a day-off for my birthday, a dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant, and ten pin bowling for the Wellington Business Games.

Maybe things are starting to look up?

As soon as I made it home, the phone started to ring. I picked it up to discover my auntie in Auckland on the line, making her obligatory phone call to check that my brother and I haven't burned-down the house while my parents enjoy a long vacation in New York and several other eastern seaboard destinations.

After assuring her that yes, we're eating right, no, nothing's broken, and no, the house hasn't been burned-down, she put my nieces on the phone (not technically my nieces, but my cousin's 2 and 5yr old daughters).

"Hi uncle Scanner." says the adorable little voice on the line belonging to Chelsea, the older of the 2.

I'm left wondering if she even remembers who I am. The last time I saw her she was 4 years old and had to keep being reminded what my name was. When I left, she kept calling me 'hey dude', and didn't even know we were related. Maybe her mother (my cousin) reminded her that it was I who helped them pass that troublesome level in Crash Bandicoot, and after that she would be able to associate me with some sort of achievement.

She tells me a little about the dinner she just ate, before passing the phone along.

"I'll get Amber next." says Chelsea.

Amber, the younger of the 2, wasn't even speaking when I last met her. Her most stand-out feature was that she was an energetic 10-month-old baby. You could never keep her still long enough for a photo. There was no way she would know who I was, so I wasn't surprised to hear my auntie telling her what to say, acting like a not-so-invisible cue card for the nervous speech maker.

"Hi uncle Scanner." says a shy voice.

Wow, talk about heart-melting cuteness.

Before I could manage a sentence of my own, Amber started randomly pressing buttons on the phone.

*beep*

*beeeeeep*

*beeeep*

And so on.

Hmm, I wonder if she'll find the...

*click* *beeeeeeeee.....*

...hang-up button.

Haha, yes, things are definitely looking up.

A couple of years ago my mind held this notion that working in an office would be like having been sentenced to the third circle of hell. I was afraid that offices contained some once-removed cousins of the human race, ones that adapted to the confined spaces of the office cubicle, where their metabolism was a form of photosynthesis involving fluorescent lighting and caffeine, and whose normal temperament was to act indifferent to their fellow (office)man(-thing). In packs, these creatures would seek any reason to publicly flog another, like wearing the wrong work clothes, and in their minds, getting caught borrowing someone else's stuff was cause enough for murder.

It's a pretty abysmal image of the working-class person, and I have no idea where it all came from.

I'm glad that it was just a silly misconception.

Since my first office job at Internal Affairs, each office environment has slowly restored my image of the 9-5 working bee. If ever there were places like what I've described above, I've been lucky enough to avoid them, and now find myself in a building with people who are the complete opposite of the scary types I feared. It seems that a sense of humour is as much a requirement for employment as an educational background, and getting some sort of candy (Easter eggs, M&Ms, Roses chocolates) from our team leaders is the norm. And instead of public floggings, there are pot luck lunches like the one taking place right now on this floor.

The only reason I'm not eating with the others is because of my guilt at not having anything to contribute of my own. It keeps me tied to my desk like a pair of medieval restraints, and it weighs heavily enough on my conscience that it prevents me from getting out of my seat. That is, until the lunch organizer makes his rounds to those still at their desks, encouraging us to get up and eat. When he extends the invitation to me, it brushes away my guilt, breaking my proverbial bonds and clearing room in my thoughts for my stomach to take charge and lead me to whatever food is left (which by now is the desserts: pavlovas, cheescakes, and ice creams).

It isn't a casual Friday - and having recently been told by the New Zealand managing director to wear presentable attire every day unless told otherwise, it hardly is anymore - yet everyone here is dressed casually and comfortably, in a manner that flies in the face of that executive order. Sneakers and jeans are common, and bright or collarless shirts are also making their rounds. As I join them, my own clothes blend-in perfectly: olive drab cargo pants, white slightly-dirtied cross trainers, and my favourite thin black sweat top (the one that's too warm for summer, and not thick enough for winter).

The lunch seems to be a nice mix of camaraderie amongst us programmer grunts, as well as a 'Ha! Suck it!' statement to upper management. It's doubtful the Auckland-based director is going to walk-in on us here, so we might as well be spending our Friday's eating good food and pulling the proverbial finger behind Mr director's back.

2. Forgotten something?

The work day is done, and as I make my way out of the building, I get the feeling that I've forgotten something, but don't know what. I start searching frantically, checking-off items in my head as I move my hands from my bag to my pockets to my bag again: books, check. Drink bottle, check. MP3 player that isn't an iPod, check. Viewmaster...

It went on like that for a while - including searching for the non-existent viewmaster - and as I approached the public access elevator at the back of Whitcoulls, a part of me shivered at the sight of this place as I recalled a dream I had earlier this week...

There was a hostage situation at Sheree's Whitcoulls, and their captor had rigged a bomb to the building. My dream shot back and forth between grainy surveillance camera footage showing Sheree and her workmates being held by fear in a staffroom, to myself standing outside behind a police barrier looking-on as it all went down. Before I gathered enough willpower to act, the bomb went off, killing everyone inside.

Angered that Sheree had been blown-up, and frustrated at my inability to do anything, I went back in time - yes, that's right - to prevent this from happening. I went back several days and used this time to take careful note of those coming and going from the building, in hopes of finding-out who will be responsible for this plot. When time finally caught-up to the day of the bomb, I discovered that it was our resident ginge, Matthew Tough, and watched as he prepared to do that terrorist thing and go up in a blaze similar in colour to his hair.

I immediately walked on an intercept path to catch him before he entered Whitcoulls. When he was within talking distance, I confronted him about what he was doing. He didn't give me enough time to read his face and learn his intentions; once I started asked my questions, he broke into a sprint in the classic Scottish fashion.

It was like one of those on-foot chase scenes from a movie - or at the very least, Hot Fuzz - and somewhere along the line Wellington city segued into a tall bush maze which Matthew entered to get me off his tail. Before I could follow, some sort of time cop (think enforcer of people who time travel) started chasing after me. Don't ask me how I knew he was a time cop, or what he was going to do once he caught me. Maybe he'd give me the time-travelling equivalent of a blood-alcohol test, or a speeding ticket. Either way, I wasn't hanging around to find out; when your pursuer looks like a pissed-off version of Steven Seagal, you run.

I continued my pursuit of Matthew into the maze, with Steven Seagal hot on my heels.

The maze was your stereotypical hedge maze: tall green shrubbery, trimmed in perfect geometric shapes, with so many twists and turns that I barely caught sight of Matthew as I rounded the corners and looked down a new path. I was relying more on my 'where would Matthew run' instincts rather than plain sight, and it must've worked because I eventually caught up to him.

Unfortunately, so did Steven Seagal.

All 3 of us were in the centre of the maze, but before any sort of 'the good, the bad, and the ugly' stand-off could take place, I woke up.

And that was just Sunday's dream.

3. The other sister

Whatever I was doing - rummaging through my stuff to find a missing item, or thinking about the many ways Steven Seagal could kick my ass - it abruptly stopped once I left Whitcoulls and stepped-out onto the freezing cold air of Lambton Quay. It was like getting slapped by a cold fish encased in an even colder layer of ice, and I pulled my jacket closer to me to stop the cold fish from slapping as much of me as possible.

Cold fish weren't the only hazard; a slight rainfall just moments before coated the pavements in a thin layer of water, turning several footpaths into teflon. On the nice smooth pavement, the water caused many to slip and/or fall, and it was happening so often that several Wellington street blocks soon transformed into one large slapstick comedy; bikes skidding, people slipping forwards, people slipping backwards, and people slipping into other people. All we needed now was the Benny Hill theme or a musical piece out of the silent movie era, and this picture would be complete.

One thing I didn't forget, was that tonight was the fundraiser for the NZ Women's Handball team, which Claire has somehow become a part of. The part I couldn't figure out was why, or how, Claire had ended-up in a handball team. I thought she was a soccer person, feet and all. Then again, I used to think office workers devoured souls.

I imagine Claire on the soccer field, being called-out for touching the ball with her hands for maybe the 50th time, after which she gets fed-up with the restriction and decides to do something about it.

Claire, meet handball. Handball, meet Claire.

Either way, that wasn't going to start for a while, so I had some time to kill. I started walking down Lambton Quay, in the opposite direction of the fundraising venue. Maybe I'll survive in the cold for a while longer.

Maybe not.

The single-digit temperatures continued to hound me. I should've stayed inside where the heaters - one of the greatest inventions ever, right up there with sliced bread - could keep me warm. If I did however, I never would've spotted Janna and one of her friends walking this way. Janna was wearing her usual black work clothes which did good to make her look work-smart. Although seeing anybody in some formal work attire always makes them look a lot smarter in my eyes. I never had my own +10 IQ clothing. All I have are my glasses, which just make me look more Asian instead.

Somehow, Janna seemed oblivious to the cold, and to the people slipping around her. Actually, she seemed oblivious to pretty much everything. Laughing as she and her friend walked along, with rosy cheeks and a cheerful expression, you'd think she was on... oh no.

Since she was also completely oblivious to me, I'd have to shoulder-barge her to get her attention, again.

Bump.

"Hi Janna."

"Oh, Em." she replied as she rolled back her eyes. She must be getting sick of me barging into her every time we meet.

"Janna, are you drunk?" I asked. No small-talk or beating around the bush for me.

"Umm, yyyyyynnnnnnnnyyyyynnnnn..."

They always tell you that alcohol can slow your reactions, remove your inhibitions, and make you think you're a better dancer. I've never seen the lab results to prove it, but scientific studies or none, this moment, as I asked Janna that question, was all the proof I needed.

I met her gaze and could almost watch Janna's thought processes as they slowed to the speed of a 20th century Pentium processor running some modern-day bloatware. Behind those brown eyes I could see her synapses firing (or in her case, misfiring) mixed messages, which in turn confused the rest of her body. She was almost half-saying 'yes' and half-saying 'no', while at the same time trying to stifle a giggle. Looking back on it, the giggle must've been a coping mechanism, a by-product of all that thinking.

"...yyyyyyynnnnnnnnnnoooo."

Apparently alcohol can make you a better liar too.

"Dammit Janna! You know this now makes it 50%?"

I've started counting the number of times I have seen Janna drunk, in proportion to the number of times I've seen her at all in recent history. To date, she now sits at a modest 5 (drunk) out of 12 (meetings) which is... *gets the calculator out* ...41.67%.

I can't recall exactly how the rest of that conversation went: there was a lot of giggling from her, and a lot of shaking my head in shame from me. I've been calling Janna my big sister (and me her little brother) for such a long time now that I have trouble remembering what the reasons were for starting it all in the first place. Now I stand here wondering why on Earth I ever selected a sister who drinks more often than I brush my teeth.

It must be all the other times, when her easy-going nature and good sense of humour really shine. Like when we cooked and ate all of the potato-based oven food from the freezer when her flatmates were away, or actually tried to convince her workmates that we were related (don't let the differences in skin, hair, and eye colour fool you). And she also has a large enough sense of revenge, without it being criminal, to be a great ally to have when poking fun at someone else's expense (quite often Simon Gow's).

I guess it's memories like that which remind me why Janna is a good psuedo-sister, and friend. 58.33% of the time.

4. Claire Hammond, by request

As I approached the Chicago sports bar, I saw a 'Help The Poor' poster stuck to the inside of a window near the entrance. It's a more photo-filled version of the e-mail Claire sent out earlier this week (also entitled 'help the poor!') to tell me about the fundraiser. I try to spot Claire in the team photo, but can't seem to find her. Probably just an old photo, or maybe she joined at the last minute? I haven't even seen her and I've already got a horde of handball-related questions to ask. The first being "What is handball, and how did you end-up in it?" OK, so technically that's 2 questions, but I'd label them 1a and 1b.

I raised my shoulders in a miniature shrug, donned my +10 Asian glasses, opened the door, and went inside.

Having never been here before, I took in my surroundings before moving-on to where I heard 'Em!' somewhere to my right. Actually, I think I ignored that shout, as I have learned to ignore several other 1-syllable noises which sound similar to my name.

Lo and behold, the noise was actually from somebody trying to get my attention, and I looked and walked towards the source: Claire. She was seated at a table situated on a landing half-way up the stairs with 2 other girls I don't know (presumably from her handball team?) and standing behind them looking cool, calm, and composed was our friendly neighbourhood Russian, Alexey.

"Hi Em!" said Claire looking good in her new team jacket (or so I assumed, seeing as the other 2 girls were wearing their own) with colours that screamed New Zealand to me.

"Hey Claire." I said with a small smile in her direction. "Alexey." I nodded to the Russian behind her.

"So Em," Claire started, "when's your next big e-mail?"

"Huh? I just wrote one (where by 'just' I mean 'at least a month ago'). And I don't have any new material to write about either."

"I know, why don't you write about me?" and with those words Claire started smiling her signature smile. It's kinda hard to describe: a smile where you get the impression she is also grinning, yet she manages not to bare her teeth. Or maybe she does? No, that doesn't sound right. Add a hint of cheesiness to it. No, that's not right either. How about... oh hell. You guys all know Claire, so should know what it's like. It's the smile that's uniquely Claire, much like how her team jacket screams New Zealand, or how Alexey never changes facial expressions (I swear he only has the one which says 'mess with me, and you gotta mess with my Russian mafia buddies too'. Note to self: don't send this e-mail to Alexey).

Anyway, back to Claire saying I should write about her.

"Umm, OK." I reply.

Claire Claire Claire, what can I say about her...

She's short. There. I said it. Might as well get that out of the way now so I can focus on some more important aspects, like not her height. So it was good that we spent most of the night seated at a table across from each other where the whole sitting-down thing takes my legs out of the height equation.

Claire would definitely belong on my list of people I've known the longest, which includes almost anybody I befriended during my 3/4-length standard 4 year at Redwood School. Or in her case, danced with (ballroom dancing partners, 1994). So given the number of years since we were introduced to one another, you'd think I'd remember simple facts about her, like her last name. That wasn't the case during the first year at university.

Simon Gow and I were seated at the couches between classes, and I was killing time by recalling names of friends and their meanings (if I knew them), and then I came across Claire's.

"Claire, Claire... Nope. Don't know what that means." I said to myself. "OK, figure-out what Miss... err..." I was scratching my head trying to figure-out how to complete that sentence. In that instant, whatever brain cells bridged the gap between 'Claire' and 'Hammond' were destroyed by cosmic rays.

"Hey Gow," I said aloud to Simon, turning to him. "What's Claire's last name?"

"Oh, it's..." as a confused and hollow look overtook his features. "What the fuck!? I don't know!"

Seems those cosmic rays have a large area of effect.

So there Simon and I were, looking like confused idiots trying to figure-out Claire's last name. Luckily for us, it wasn't long before Richard started walking our way.

"Oi Chid," Simon asked as Richard approached, "what's your girlfriend's last name?"

Richard looked at us with disgust, like he was contemplating whether to eliminate us from the gene pool for our stupidity.

"It's Hammond you retards!"

"Hammond!" Simon and I said slowly and in chorus in a tone of discovery. By stretching the word out and saying it slowly to one another, it caused the word to stick in our minds. Unsurprisingly, the same method is used to teach infants their ABC's.

And it was one my dumbest moments in history.

I don't think Claire could ever be caught-out for being stupid. For a blonde-haired girl, she manages to leave an impression of intelligence on me. She's got a whole heap of talents, some of which I might be willing to trade limbs for, including one I learned of recently (where by 'recently', I mean 'in the past year'): writing.

I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that she writes, especially since I sat next to her and relied upon her through 7th form English. When I wrote my first story e-mail back in October, I made sure to include her on the CC list so that I could get some critique from a pro.

Where people look to me for answers in Maths, I look to her for answers in English.

For that reason, if I had to pick somebody to be stranded on a desert island with, it'd probably be Claire. Between the both of us, I reckon we could pull-off some sort of MacGyver stunt with whatever she brought along, plus my bag with the book, drink bottle, non-iPod MP3 player, and missing viewmaster.

So the fundraiser evening was spent mostly talking with Claire and Alexey, answering my questions on handball and her involvement with it, and catching-up on stories and the months gone by.

I should mention that after that stupid day at university, I did go and look-up 'Claire' when I got to my computer at home. I committed the results to memory, right next to where I etched her last name into my brain. The answer really depended on which website I visited: it could either mean clear, bright, shining, or illustrious. But in my books, it's all of the above.

I don't think I've ever felt like such a computer geek in my life.

Today I find myself sitting in a large room in the Wellington Town Hall surrounded by other computer programmers, workmates, and industry peers. We're organized into neat sitting rows on red mid-backed chairs, all facing a side of the room where a speaker's podium and projection screen reside. The chairs are only slightly cushioned to prevent my body from aching for somewhere between 5 to 20 minutes, depending on how interesting I find the current speaker and their topic, and the large but few windows let in hints of a sunny day from the outside, but do little to alter the contrast of the current speaker's slide. It isn't the light that's a problem, but having forgotten to bring my glasses, I find myself trying to get the majority of the presentation from my ears rather than my eyes.

The current speaker - whose job title includes the words 'technology evangelist' - an older man whose features tend towards the young side of the middle-age spectrum, is presenting what feels like more of a marketing pitch than a technology talk. But I can spot the relevance in his presentation, as well as the other presentations that I'll be attending today; all of which are small introductions to a host of current and upcoming technologies which can be used to aid Java programmers, like myself, with their development work.

Yes, I'm at a programmer's conference.

Before today, the worst it ever got was having to fix computers for friends, family, and family friends. The best example is how Melissa, on several occassions, asked me over to her place for the sole intent and purpose of getting her computer to do something it didn't do before, like: connect to the internet, type Japanese characters, or work.

Having the ability to fix computers isn't such a bad thing. Considering the proliferation of computers in today's world, there's always a need for that friend who can fix a computer, and the prospect leaves me feeling like a very useful human being. Although I never feel that useful when an old computer sits opened-up in front of me, dust swirling through the air threatening to clog my nostrils while getting my hands and arms cut on the sharp edges of it's metal case.

After what must have been the 5th session of triple bypass surgery for Melissa's PC, Richard showed me a site where they sell a t-shirt with the words "No, I will not fix your computer." written on the front. If I had that shirt, plus my glasses, I would have easily fit-in with the majority of today's conference crowd.

To anybody whose job doesn't involve programming, today's presentations and speeches would seem to drive a stake of boredom through a vampire's heart. I surprise myself by staying awake, attending every session, and actually being interested in what the speakers have to say. Unlike university where most afternoon lectures were a constant battle to stave-off sleep (something which I remedied by raiding Gavin's and Michelle's psychology lectures and falling asleep there instead. Although that didn't always work, especially during the more fascinating lectures like the one when the hypnotist came in).

At lunch time, even though they provided food, I left the building to look for lunch elsewhere. They weren't serving anything bad, but if I stayed there for 8 hours straight, I don't think I would've survived the afternoon's round of presentations.

Staying in the same building - which has some relation to work - for hour after hour feels as if it has some effect on time and space; the longer I spend in a building that has something to do with work, the longer it takes for an hour to pass. Getting out of the building around mid-day (eg: lunch time) is a simple cure to reset the timer. Without doing that, it would feel like I was being imprisoned in the Town Hall for a better part of eternity.

I walk out of the Town Hall and into the bright sunny day, walking in random directions as I decide what to have for lunch.

2. A summer grin

It was the closing days of summer, but nobody walking down this street would've known it. New Zealand received a rather late summer season. Just as most of us had started to give up on it ever arriving at all, it greeted us in full force as soon as the date clocked over to 2007. Like a Christmas present shipped from overseas, it's late arrival was both a surprise and a welcome gift.

Pity it decided to leave on schedule instead of hanging-around longer to make-up for lost time.

March started to show very early signs of abating sunshine: the sun being bullied into a tinier corner of the sky by the bigger and badder clouds of gray, light gray, and dark gray. A week from now, an autumn/winter weather hybrid will descend on this country bringing flooding, several cold fronts, and an overflowing crater lake within the space of a few days.

But nobody can predict the future, meaning everyone now was taking the hot sun and blue skies that idled above our heads for granted. Especially this tall guy I see in the distance, walking this way wearing one of the biggest grins I have ever seen. Once he came within the minimum range of the myopic haze that clouds my long-range vision, I saw that it was Simon Gow, and then knew that grin wasn't entirely a byproduct of the lovely weather.

A few days ago, I was walking towards a bakery on Victoria Street which I've affectionately named 'the pie shop'. That bakery won a '#1 pie in NZ' award some years back, and I've been going there on a semi-regular basis just for the pies. That day, Simon and his mates were walking in the opposite direction to a roti & curry place, also on Victoria St.

Sort-of bumping into eachother, we ended-up going to the roti & curry place, and talked about all sorts of things: his programming job, my programming job, other peoples' programming jobs and the amounts they're earning - leaving us both in a jealous rage at the dumb luck that some people just get - and his new MacBook.

Not that I haven't heard a lot of what Simon had to say about the pros of his MacBook, but now that I know of 2 friends who have 'converted' to MacBooks (the other one being Simon Campbell), I'm starting to notice a pattern amongst Mac users: they can't ever seem to shut up about how good they are.

So now Simon's talking about how wonderful the MacBook is, and I just can't bring myself to rebuke his claims. I mean, what am I gonna counter with? How great Windows XP has been to me these passed few years? To borrow a line from Chris Rock, Windows XP would be "...like the Uncle that paid your way through college (pause) but molested you."

His trip to Germany also came up.

I learned from various other sources that Simon was going to Germany, but the reasoning was never that clear. From Janna, she gave me a one-word reason: girl. From Matthew, who subsequently heard it from Sam, he gave me a two-word reason: chasing skirts. Knowing Simon, both reasons were completely legitimate, and I never bothered to argue these speculated motivations.

Germany was only a few days away, next Tuesday in fact, so it was one helluva stroke of luck to run into him today. The lunch ends with him taking a photo of me for one of his MacBook programs, then us going our separate ways.

Imagine my surprise to see him again today, wearing what I first mistook for a 'this summer is great' grin. Knowing what I do now from our lunch just a few days ago, I can read the second meaning behind that face. It was more of a 'Screw you bitches, I'm going to Germany!' grin, one which exuded both cheesiness and energy, enough to bathe Simon in an incandescent glow sufficient to brighten some dark corner of a 3rd world nation. Or serve as a beacon for incoming aircraft. His height would make him ideal for that purpose.

We cross paths, without slowing down.

"Holy crap man, I thought you'd be gone already."

"Not yet, just got some stuff to do."

"Oh yeah, not Tuesday yet. Well, have a good trip man."

Have a good trip.

3. The last stupid walk

It seems that when people I know begin to move in directions that take them very far away, fate conspires to have me run into them more often until the day they go. Gow was a prime example, and Kate would be the second person to add proof to this theory.

Fast-forward a week, to a Friday morning train on it's way to Wellington. The doors have just closed to pick-up passengers from the last station before rushing to the city. A well-dressed version of Kate Smith - light shirt, thin black jacket, and black boots with a long dark (denim?) skirt to match - has just boarded and looks left and right for a seat on the train.

'She doesn't normally dress this well?' I think to myself. 'I wonder what the occasion is? Oh yeah...'

She spots me, smiles as she walks in my direction, and sits-down in the empty seat next to me.

"Hi there." says Kate as she pulls the signature white earphones of her iPod (Nano) from her ears and puts them away.

"Hi Kate." I reply, staring almost jealously at the iPod Nano. "Last day at the old job huh? You certainly look the part."

During our walks to/from university/work over the years, Kate has always held the majority of the conversation, which is a good thing because if I don't have anything to work with, I don't have much to joke or talk about. Nowadays, she talks a lot about her current job at university, how it's almost finished, and how she can't wait to start her new job. From what I've gathered, the new job will be more attuned to what Kate wants to do, although it's all the way out in some suburb in the Hutt with a name I can't remember in a place I can't find on a map. I notice myself drawing parallels between Kate's anticipation of her new job, and a 4 year old's anticipation of Santa Claus, and I can't help but feeling glad for her.

Seems there's a lot of work-related stuff going-on for her, whereas the only semi-exciting work story I can think of is how I missed-out on an earthquake because I was spinning on my office chair as I waited for my computer to start.

"Whoa, did you feel that?" says one of my office mates.

"Yeah, small earthquake there." replies another.

"Earthquake what?" I say as I stop spinning on my chair.

"Didn't you feel that?"

"No..." I say, somewhat regretably.

Or maybe how, during the annual golf tournament - where work creates makeshift putting courses out of the carpeted areas between desks, tables, and other workplace obstacles - someone created a mock water hazard by drawing blue and fishes on printer paper. I walked onto one of these water hazards, then fell to the floor pretending I couldn't swim, proving that papercuts weren't the only way to injure yourself with A4s.

It's feels good sometimes to get away with these things because I'm the youngest person at work.

This passed week, her topics of discussion have included complaining about her height, complaining about her age (Kate is also the youngest at her work, although I doubt she spends her time spinning on office chairs), complaining about a New Zealand Customs procedure that has given her gray hairs, and of course, complaining about her soon-to-be old job. Looking at that list, you'd think there's no room for joy in that heart of hers. But she's a lovely girl, really.

No, really.

Now, walking along Lambon Quay...

"I've got a Mac at work," Kate says about her current job, "and I'm always having to press the Apple key on the keyboard. Then when I go home, no Apple key! Aaa! Stupid Apple key."

Nice to hear that not everybody is impressed with their Mac.

"So after today, no more stupid Apple key, no more stupid escalator," she says as she points to an escalator she usually takes to work. Funnily enough, the escalator isn't even moving; truly a stupid escalator.

"And no more stupid walk!" she finishes.

"Hey," I reply defensively, "I actually kinda like this walk!"

"Oh." she says, half apologizing for the previous remark with the expression on her face.

I never get around to saying that she's the reason I quite enjoy these walks, because by then she's moved to the foot of the stupid escalator, and I'm 3 metres away on Lambton Quay's stupid footpaths. That 3 metres might as well have been 3 astronomical units, for the ambient noise of the nearby morning traffic drowns-out anything I have to say.

So instead, I mime rubbing imaginary tears from my eyes, muster-up an 'I'm sad to see you go' smile, wave goodbye, and walk away.

4. The day the Internet died

'So, no more Gow, no more Kate...' I think as I sit at work waiting for my work computer to start-up. Instead of spinning on the office chair (in-case I miss another earthquake), I silently count-off my fingers as I name other friends who have found themselves anywhere but here, and quickly run out of fingers.

With the computer now ready, I start my usual morning ritual of browsing news, technology, and games sites. One of these being a browser-based game I've been playing since university.

www.nukezone.nu

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Games Sites

Ah crap! The company-wide Internet site filter takes effect today!

Many people on my floor have been dreading this day, fearing that they will no longer be able to fuel their addiction to the online auction/bargain if TradeMe gets blocked.

Time to see what else I've got left.

planetcnc.gamespy.com

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Games Sites

www.guru3d.com

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Games Sites/Computing IT

I then try TradeMe, to see if it still goes. By some small miracle, it seems to be accessible. I can already hear the sighs of relief coming from my co-workers.

I then try my own website, and am not too surprised to see it isn't blocked. Maybe it's a .nz thing?

www.tab.co.nz

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Gaming

Nope.

Now that I've told another workmate about the filter, we spend the morning discovering what other sites have been blocked, and find some hilarity at what they get categorized as. I think my best finds had to be deviantArt: an online art community, and MySpace: a social networking site and haven for emo kiddies around the globe.

www.deviantart.com

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Adult Content, Entertainment, Chatrooms, Personal Beliefs/Cults, Clubs and Societies

www.myspace.com

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Dating Sites, Shopping, Entertainment, Personal Beliefs/Cults, www-Email Sites, Music Downloads

With so many sites blocked, I feel I'm on the wrong side of a proverbial Iron Curtain; the East Berlin of the Internet. I keep trying to see where I can go, and am surprised to see that The Onion: a satirical news site poking fun at current affairs, is accessible. Maybe I can still watch one of my favourite online cartoons, Weebl & Bob: about 2 egg-shaped things on the eternal quest for pie. A strange concept, I know, but hey it's pie. Maybe the guys were on something when they came up with the idea...

www.weebls-stuff.com

Access to this site is not permitted.

Category: Game Sites, Entertainment, Drugs/Alcohol

Ha, maybe my guess wasn't too far from the truth after all.

Christmas is in the air.

As I step-off the public access elevator at Whitcoulls on my walk home, there are reminders of it everywhere I go. Special Christmas items advertise themselves in large font on signs of black, red, and white, and the songs being played on the shop's speaker system speak of good cheer and this wonderful holiday season. My empathy immediately reaches-out to those working in retail, who have to listen to Christmas songs being played over and over, and I begin to wonder about the mental-health impact of these songs.

It's not too different from the work I have just left. The Christmas decorations are hanging from the ceilings, wrapped around coat racks and pillars, and large synthetic trees stand tall on tables not used normally. The smell of tinsel permeates my senses, and while we don't have a building-wide speaker system playing carols all-day long, we do have a macarena doll-thing by our floor's Christmas tree. A good nudge can set it off, to which it responds by singing a verse from the macarena, twice. The first time someone bumped into it, it was quite amusing and got laughs all-round. The second time it put a smile on my face. The third time somebody dropped something too hard on the table and set it off again, I just sighed.

By the 8th iteration, I was ready to break something.

Walking from the elevator to the street exit with one of my workmates, I happen to spot someone who fits the profile of someone else I know: blonde hair tied into a single ponytail, wearing a baby blue jacket with a single red stripe orbiting it just under the shoulders, flanked by white stripes on either side, and a similarly coloured bag about to burst from being overstuffed with too many things, saying goodbye to the staff (co-workers?) as she leaves the store.

One should know that not long after my eyes began to go short-sighted, I learned to recognize people by other visual cues: their clothes, their hair, the way they walk, and yes, their silhouette. It isn't a sure-fire system, but it works pretty well when discerning the girls. As for the guys, it doesn't help that every guy I know shops at Hallensteins.

"Sheree?" I say in a way that conveys I'm feeling only 50% certain of my guess.

She turns to where she heard the voice, and upon seeing her face my guess was affirmed.

"Eeeeehhhmmm!" she replies in her normal cheerful way, making it seem as if what is printed on my birth certificate has several more soft E's than there should be. "Hug!" And she crosses the short distance between us in a sort of arms-outstretched charge.

Not that I would call the result a hug. It was more of a semi-surprise collision between 2 entities. Ever seen those ads where 2 cars collide and the one that is travelling slower is the worse for wear? I felt like that car.

When I regained consciousness, I had enough sense to hug her back. When the air returned to my lungs, I turned to the guy who was walking with me.

"Gerard, this is Sheree. She's the friend of mine who works here, who I regularly visit."

Gerard makes a brief hello, and Sheree just beams in his direction.

Soon afterwards, both Sheree and I are heading towards some sort of public transport port; her a bus stop, me the train station. The lovely spring/summer rain continues to pour while we take a cautious walk underneath the not-so-well-sheltered walkway of Lambton Quay. We talk about the usual things normally reserved for our Friday encounters. Sheree takes an umbrella from her bag, and the bag refuses to deflate even a little. She opens the umbrella, and, given her height and the way she's holding it, the ends of the umbrella frame hover dangerously close to my right eye. I take the umbrella from her and hold it above us both. The act could be seen to have been a gentleman-like gesture, but I was also concerned about losing my eye.

After a bit more walking and talking, my nose picks-up on something. Something familiar. Food. A favourite of mine. You gotta be kidding me.

"Sheree, did you have a pie recently?"

"Huh? How can you tell? I'm chewing gum!"

Her breath wasn't what gave her away. That aroma clung to her like the incriminating evidence that it was and I homed-in on it because... well... I am kinda hungry.

2. New New World

With Sheree having found her bus stop, and me now at the train station, I walk into the new New World Metro, recently opened and now assimilating a large portion of the Wellington Railway Station.

Compared with other supermarkets, the New World Metro 'Railway' (as they like to call themselves) is quite possibly the epitome of convenience. Located at a central hub of activity during normal working days, as well as during any event that happens to be at the Wellington Stadium nearby, this supermarket is at the center of it all.

With Matthew now working there, my understanding of it's usefulness is somewhat different.

Matthew works in the wine department, which happens to be visible by the entrance of New World that I walk by on the way to work or home. Just by turning my head I can let my person-profiling ability pick him out in the crowd, without even deviating from my normal walking path. A tall guy in a black New World uniform, coupled with his ginger coloured hair, makes it rather easy to locate him. If I don't find anybody that fits that description, then I can keep walking on.

Now that's convenience.

Having been transferred to this New World, he's slightly more pleased with it's location than the one he last worked at. This one puts him in a strategic location not too far from his friends; each of us is within a 15 minute walk from his work.

Upon entering New World, I start thinking that I should've picked a different day to come in. Now my nose and stomach are alert to all other sorts of aromas, and it doesn't help my hunger one bit. What my eyes were seeing however, left me a little more in awe: a modern presentation of the usual stocked items lets you know that you're walking in a slightly different sort of supermarket, while the usual shine and polish from the glass and steel seems to make everything just a little bit brighter than usual. I looked to my shoes and, as the floor marred my reflection, I was impressed that I had a reflection at all. If my old saying of "bright, shiny, and new" ever had an entry and illustration in a dictionary, this place would describe it's intent perfectly.

I make my way towards where I saw Matthew. I find him standing beside several prepared samples of red wine sourced from Hawkes Bay vineyards. I know this because whenever a customer came-up to him and asked what was what, he managed to let them know everything that the bottle said, but in a more concise way, within 5 seconds. He repeated his well-rehearsed knowledge several times. At least he didn't annoy like the macarena doll.

We didn't get to talk about much, but he did mention his plan for an Uncle Chang's get-together this coming weekend. I looked forward to it, and I wondered if with Matthew's new found wine powers, he would be like the guy in the New World ads. In the wine ad, the guy brings an entire box of wine to a small dinner party, and upon being told of what they'll be eating, he selects the right wine for the occassion. I imagine my ginger-haired friend coming to Uncle Chang's with a selection of wines...

"We're gonna be having the sweet & sour pork, lemon chicken, sichuan beef, and shrimp fried rice." says someone at the table.

"Ah." says Matthew in a smug yet intelligent manner.

He doesn't take long to search through the box and pick-out a bottle. Now, holding that bottle in one hand, he uses the other to stroke the stubble of his beard and quickly comes to the conclusion that this is the right wine for the job - a perfect fit for the meal ahead - and nods his head in acknowledgement.

In that imaginary world, I don't think Lego blocks could have fit together any better.

3. Spring flu = teh suck

The trains are late, again.

Now that I'm standing still, symptoms from the flu I've been recovering from have had the chance to catch-up to me. And I'm still hungry. I should've solved that problem, considering I just walked through a supermarket. Good old conservative Em.

I look around me to see if anybody else looks remotely sick; nobody. The train station is filled with homeward bound commuters, eagerly watching the signs as, one-by-one, they announce the next departure. Each person anticipating their own train. Each person in a much healthier condition than myself.

Surely I can't be the only sick person in this station? It is a dauting prospect, but pessimism is a common symptom whenever I feel ill. They say misery loves company, and I think I just learned of the sort of company it likes to keep.

The sky is once again an uninteresting shade of gray, and the wind wasn't strong, just slightly gusty, slightly annoying. I caught myself being surprised at how well the weather matches my current mood. It reminds me of other times when I thought it was my own happiness that parted the clouds and let the sun shine through, or when my own misery caused the blue to suddenly disappear from the sky. ie: when I thought my own emotions controlled the weather.

One such time was one of my birthdays, I think I was 7. I was crying, I don't know what for. At that age, I could have literally been crying over spilled milk. The sky was also shedding tears, and I never thought that it could be crying with me. That was, until I stopped. I guess the spill had finally been mopped-up, and when it had, the rain stopped too, and almost immediately did the clouds make way to shine golden rays of contentment from a 7-year old.

My thought-process makes the next logical leap in subject: to my own birthday, just a few weeks ago...

4. Happy birthday - past

It was the morning of my 23rd birthday. Nothing special about that milestone: I can already vote, see any-rated movies, drink (haven't been making the most of that), drive (definitely haven't been taking advantage of that), and get passed whatever other restrictions that this country's laws have put on it's citizens. I can officially start calling myself old.

I turn-on my phone and am quickly greeted by a couple of text messages from none other than Tranz Metro. I'm convinced there's some conspiracy at that company where they know it's my birthday and decide to trash a few of their own trains this time every year just as an excuse to send me their usual banter about how this service has been delayed, cancelled, derailed, or all of the above. It's been that way since I've turned 21, when they sent me 4 messages. And last year, just 1. They've never actually use the words 'happy birthday', but it's the thought that counts.

First order of the day was to get to Victoria University today to wish someone else happy birthday: Michelle. Although she won't turn 23 until the next day, I've always liked the prospect of being able to share a birthday with someone. In all the years of knowing her, I've treated her with a sort of favouritism because of this simple fact. I guess the idea of being born in temporal proximity to someone has me develop some sort of kinship towards that someone; that no matter what changes in each of us, we'll still have this one thing in common.

Once in the city, I begin the all-too-familiar walk towards university. Having not done it for months, my legs can still take me there without giving it too much thought. The only difference now is that The Terrace seems a bit longer and steeper than I remember. It must have been a warm day too, because as I approached university I started to regret having worn my black sleeve top. It's one of my more favoured pieces of clothing, as thin and comfortable as 4-ply tissue paper, but still warm enough to make me question why I didn't bring something cooler for the day. I guess this country's temperamental weather patterns have taught me to expect the worst, even to my own discomfort.

I finally get to university and make a bee-line towards an arrangement of couches at the Cotton building. I drop onto one of the couches, welcoming them as they cushion and ease my fall, finally ending-up in a very lax and comfortable seating position.

Well, no time to just sit around, I tell myself; I'll be meeting Michelle soon. So I take from my bag a birthday card, still new and empty, awaiting whatever personalized birthday wishes one would write in them. I get my pen out and hold it just above the card as I started to think about what I was going to write.

Finding the proper words to convey my intentions has always been a chore for me. I consciously tell myself to form my sentences before speaking, to avoid 'ums' and 'ahs'. It's as if most of the conversations in my life have had me preparing for some public speech in the not too distant future. But the speech never comes, and the result of all this extra thinking has me responding slower than most people, making them think I'm either retarded, or actually enjoy the awkward silences.

Several long minutes later, I've written my message, and have texted Michelle, letting her know I'm here. She texts me back, telling me to wait for her at the overbridge. I pack everything back into my bag and head for the overbridge, suddenly realizing how few people there are at university today. The last week of the 2nd semester doesn't exactly draw the crowds: only the dedicated students, and those here on a birthday mission.

My meeting with Michelle goes very well. She talks about her current study/work, what she has done in the passed year, and what she intends to do in future years.

"So when this is all done," I say, "will you finally get your own couch where you get people to lie down, ask them how they feel, and charge extravagent prices for an hour of your time?"

I watched her face slowly transform into a stern look of disapproval with every word in that last sentence. Whereas I was absolutely beaming.

"That's a horrible, horrible stereotype Em!" she responds.

It wouldn't be an encounter with Michelle without at least 1 insult flying.

And somewhere in amongst our conversation, I also take my turn to talk about myself, past, present and future: about how full-time work for the last year has turned-out, etc. I also tell her about this long e-mail I wrote to friends overseas, and how I tried to imitate the narrative style of the authors whose books I keep borrowing from the library.

"Maybe you should become a writer instead Em?" she says. "You could wear your glasses, have a pen in one hand, and drown yourself in alcohol or drugs until a creative thought comes out of your brain?"

Touché.

"That's a horrible, horrible stereotype Michelle!" I quickly say.

It wouldn't be an encounter with Michelle without someone getting even.

Overall, it was just usual conversation stuff. The sort of things that friends would tell eachother when they happen across eachother on the street. But because we can measure the gap between our encouters in fractions of a year, the usual stuff is all we ever have time for. It makes me miss previous years when Michelle wasn't such a rarity, when the lecture schedule was easy-going, and the assignments almost non-consequential.

It's the kind of wishful thinking that makes people want to invent time machines. I wonder if H. G. Wells was thinking the same thing when he wrote his story.

5. 4 interesting things about me

Home, finally, after the longer-than-usual journey.

After changing out of my work clothes, I prepared myself a basic dinner of macaroni cheese, with little bacon bits in it and very little diced parsley sprinkled on top, just to add another colour to the food. When that was all over and my stomach had stopped complaining (couldn't do anything about the latent sickness though), I sat down in front of my computer to see if any new e-mails have come in.

Having weeded-out the spam from the rest of it, I noticed my inbox is full of these '4 things about me' e-mails. The first one is from Nigel who, even though he may not have started it all, is the first to have sent that e-mail around. Followed closely by Melissa, and then several other people. My favourite probably had to be Gow's one, where he didn't even answer the questions, but said something else along the lines of 'WAINIUOMATA BITCHES!' In amongst everyone's answers, I noticed this little bit in Melissa's one:

H) Four friends I think will respond:
1. Campbell
2. Em (but it will be an artistic masterpiece)
3. Janelle
4. Lydia

Artistic masterpiece? Even so, it is about time I wrote again. 2 months is a long gap.

I click on the 'write new e-mail ' button, and before I can begin the obligatory Christmas e-mail, a new text message causes my phone to vibrate violently on the desk.

The 6:30 btwn Wgtn & Parapar is running up to 30 min lte due 2 Operational reasons...

Somewhere in this city, somebody is having a birthday.

"So what are you going to say?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before finally reaching my ears; not that my ears were the question's destination, but rather my dulled mind. In that time, whole minutes must have passed because the person before me made a face of mild annoyance at my unusually slow response.

And then I woke-up.

I lay in bed and remained there for another couple of minutes as I let my waking senses return to me from the dream world I had just left. I also seized this opportunity to remember as much of the dream as possible, before I had to get out and start the daily grind. As the world slid into focus, only one event returned to me: a nameless face, asking me that last question.

It stayed with me as I had my breakfast - 3 slices of muffin splits, either buttered or strawberry-jammed - even up to the time that I boarded the train to work.

"So what am I going to say?" I repeated the question to myself, over and over again.

Recalling the dream, it wasn't all that spectacular. Normal events in my dreams include me flying on pure willpower alone, or traversing star systems to hunt-down galactic criminals. My dreams have never let the laws of physics or reality govern them, but they always did present to me things that I didn't have time during my waking hours to really think about. An old example came to mind: my friend and neighbour coming over to give us some free samples of a new Pizza Hutt food. I learned the following day that my friend's dad worked at Pizza Hutt.

Last night's dream however was a simple one, about a single idea and it's impact on everyone else. And now it was asking me to decide, that should Gemma and Simon ever get married, what would I say to Gemma?

2. The commute

I've never been particularly fond of our public transport system; Tranz Metro's trains are infamous for their lateness and delays. So much so that they offered a service to send your cell phone a text message if there were any planned delays or 15-minute-late trains. If you were to gauge my friendships by the number of text messages I have received, Tranz Metro and I would seem like the best of pals.

Learning a lesson from other passengers - members of the 9-5 40-hours-a-week workforce - I've made it a habit to always bring a book with me to and from work. The sci-fi, fantasy, and detective murder/mystery stories I've been reading have helped to stir my imagination, and make for a good way to pass the time as the train makes it's way to the city.

I brought-out my own book - The Last Guardian of Everness, by John C Wright - and opened it up where the bookmark, the Wellington Central Library receipt, lay jutting-out from the pages. I continued to read about the story's struggle between good and evil.

I didn't read many pages before I got distracted.

At the last stop before taking the express route to the city, Kate Smith - a schoolmate since primary school - and her brother, as well as a middle-aged man whose face drew stares of mild recognition from me, boarded and sat nearby. At first I only saw Kate and proceeded to lightly kick her as she walked by to grab her attention. We smiled at eachother as a greeting before she found herself a seat on the train. I was glad she turned-away to sit down as I fear that I look like a grinning idiot if I hold a smile for too long. She was one of those people who could bring that out of me, and I felt a pang of jealousy for not being as photogenic as her.

Her brother found a free seat further down the carriage. Meanwhile, the man I recognized sat beside me and started talking to Kate, who finally settled for the seat directly across from the man and I. I kept my face pointed towards my book, but my eyes wandered for a profile view of the man's face as I tried to gather just a little more information to help my brain identify and put a name to him.

The closest answer I had was Glen Randell's dad. It looked a lot like him, but there was enough doubt in my mind to question the result.

Coming into Redwood School about a quarter-way through my final primary school year, I learned that many parents of the kids, having spent many years with eachother, knew the families of the other kids. Glen and Kate were both from my class. If their families knew eachother it would not have been a surprise to me. Moving to the school in that final year didn't give me much time to know the families of those in my class. I wasn't an outcast during those years, but I wasn't completely in either.

Pushing the past aside, I turned back to my book.

3. Wellington Weather

Off the train, Kate and I smiled at eachother once again, and this time I broke the gaze by turning towards the path that would lead me to my work, while she and her brother took another path towards university.

A handful of steps went by before I started thinking about the dream's question again. Several possibilities came to mind over the course of that short walk.

Maybe I could take the standard approach and simply say congratulations, along with a sentence of well wishes. Maybe I could be overly joyous and say congratulations with several exclamations of happiness.

Neither of the responses seemed uniquely me, so I dropped the thought once again.

The city of Wellington is notorious for it's aggressive weather patterns. Today was only mildly different.

I exited the halls that lead from the Wellington trainyard and stepped-out into the atmosphere I've affectionately called 'the skybox'. A skybox is actually a term used from computer games where the game is played from the inside of a seemingly infinite-sized box, and the inside faces of the box are painted with a simple-looking sky. Wellington resembeled the skybox with it's plain gray cloud cover completely obscuring the blue skies that hid somewhere behind them, making the distance between myself and the heavens immeasurable.

The brick-paved path laid before me was only a slightly darker brown and terracotta colour, signs of the rainfall from the night before. I was half-expecting a glint of reflected light from the wet grass that surrounded the brick pathway, but was disappointed as the skybox had also torn the morning sunlight from the sky.

4. A short long lunch

Some days the answer of knowing what to eat and where to spend my next almost-hour comes to me in an instant. Not today however, and figuring-out what to fill my stomach with was almost as difficult as solving a quadratic equation. For these situations however, I had a back-up plan: walk to the BNZ Food Court and see which eaterie there piques my interest.

I never got that far before running into another familiar face.

Linda. Originally acquaintences through a mutual friend, we became friends to eachother over the past 4 years as fate constantly conspired to put us on the same train going to and from university. We share little in common except for the familiarity of eachother's company, and having our minds occupied with ideas on how to get revenge on those who have crossed us in the past. If Linda had the resources, she'd probably put her plans into motion. There are no rewards for being on her bad side.

Linda is a year my senior in maturity, with a realistically cheerful disposition and always a pleasant tone in her voice. She spotted me as she walked in the opposite direction and proceeded to pull-aside to a shoulder lane for my direction of traffic. As my short-sightedness finally caught-up with the figure ahead, I recognized her first by her blond half-curled hair. You could see she tried to straighten it up, but the taming of her natively frizzy hair was only partly successful.

We had lunch at Midland Park, talked about the months between now and our last meeting, exchanged e-mail addresses, and said our farewells. It's days like that which make me think that my lunch breaks are always too short.

The nagging question from my dream once again arose in my mind. This time, I had some ammunition to fire against it. Linda is engaged, the first friend of mine to have been, and from my chance encounter I relived the moment of when I was told of her engagement. That memory gave me an idea, that I had to do something different. For Linda, I was overjoyed at the news. So maybe for Gemma, I could do quite the opposite. Not sadness, but some other emotion.

I had finally narrowed it down.

For the 3rd time that day, I pushed the question aside. Only this time I was closer to my response.

5. 2nd floor: stationary, notebooks, Sheree

Friday; the day of the week that I get to see a friend with almost 100% certainty, although today's encounters seemed to have raised my chances almost three-fold. If I knew my luck was gonna hold-up for another day I would've bought a Lotto ticket.

Sheree works in Whitcoulls, which has a public access elevator that I use to go to and from work every day. On Fridays, Sheree can be found there, and I make it a point to see her after work just to talk about the events of the week passed.

Instead of the elevator, I take the stairs from the street above down to her floor. As I walk out the door I am soon surrounded by shelves of books and office supplies. Colourful children's books line the wall to my left where a mother is making a decision on what book to get her child. A high school student looks carefully at the variety of empty notebooks before her. I make my way across the floor, making a quick sweep to see if I can locate Sheree.

Some days I can't find her, and walk back to the trains somewhat disheartened. It almost looked like that today as I approached the in-store stairway to take them down to street level. But right there before I hit the first step, I find her and a workmate, with their backs to me, facing a Staff Only door, standing and staring before it as if expecting it to reveal the meaning of life.

"Hi Sheree. What are you doing?" I ask.

"Hi Eeeeehhhmmm." she replies, still facing the door. "It's broken!" she complains, then pressing buttons on the keypad lock of the door but without results.

She withdraws her hand from the keypad and gives-up. Even with her back to me I can see the disappointment on her face caused by the broken door. She turns to face me and any look of annoyance is no longer evident on her happy youthful face.

Although having turned 21 a few months ago, Sheree maintains a child-like and almost playful demeanour. Even when she's being serious, if I didn't know the year she was born, I would've thought that she was still a teenager.

Starting with the broken door, we talk about the events since our last meeting, which wasn't much. When asking any other working-class person how they've been, you tend to get the same answer over and over. Sheree steered the conversation away from the broken door.

"Hey, did you know Gemma's engaged?" she blurted-out.

"Oh?" was all I could say, faking surprise in my voice.

For some reason, the news just didn't stir any genuine astonishment in me. I had been thinking all day of what I was going to say to Gemma in such a situation that, along the way, the fiction didn't seem too far from the truth. If there was any hint of bewilderment in my last sentence, it was from having heard the news from Sheree.

"Yeah, I heard it from Michelle's sister." she continued to say.

"Pretty weird having to hear that news from you Sheree."

"I know! I mean, I don't know why Ingrid told me; Gemma and I don't really know eachother."

I could see what she meant. The age differences between the people I associate with created some sort of moat, dividing us into several subgroups separated by age and held together by a few chance meetings here and there. I guess Sheree hearing the news was like being told an uncle's second cousin's adopted daughter ran into some money.

"Funny you should tell me that news though Sheree." I said with a scheming little smirk.

I told her about my dream and the events of the day.

"You're psychic Em!"

Sometimes I wish I was.

6. The 5:30 home

Sitting on the train again, twirling my new cellphone in my hands, I look back at the small front LCD display, then the smooth plastic on the back, as I slowly spin between them. Screen, back, screen, back...

Looking elsewhere on the train, I once again find myself surrounded by the 9-to-5 40-hours-a-week crowd. The darkness of the tunnel tries to hide the details and creases in their faces, but the dim lighting fights back to accentuate those lines of age or fatigue. Despite the weary facade, in their eyes I can see a glimmer of relief as the train carries our work-hardened souls to the beginning of our weekends.

I turn back to the cellphone in my hands. I had to replace my old one not too long ago after it suffered from cellphone impotency: it kept sending out blank text messages. A couple of times I used to get replies from people asking if that last message was supposed to blank. 3 times from memory. 3 times too many.

The new phone was much sleeker, smaller, made of a silver plastic, with an in-built camera which I'll never used, and a cool flip-open clamshell design. The main reason I got it was just because it flips-open.

I flipped the phone open. The novelty of doing that still hasn't worn-off. I flipped the phone closed, just so I could open it again.

[New Text Message]

[To: Phone Book Entry]

[Gemma]

The cursor blinked several times as I drew-upon a little courage to start writing my message: my answer to this morning's question and the words I would say to Gemma. I always hope that my messages don't get taken too seriously, that the recipient knows it's just me being silly, me being me. I sometimes wonder if my sorts of text messages would likely have broken a couple of social rules anywhere else.

The screen then darkened to save power. Better start writing it now.

When I was done, I re-read the message, just to make sure it was correct.

Ah darnit, there goes any chance I ever had with you :P

Perfect.

[Send]

Head of the 'ISO Standardization of Women' ad-hoc committee and founder of the original idea, Simon Gow, has been criticized by the very peers who formerly shared in his vision and sought to pass the standard from the beginning.

Friend and fellow committee member, Emanuel Rabina, was initially "very keen" on the idea.

"When I first read it, I thought 'GREAT IDEA!' and continued to pat him on the back for the next few days. I even started a simple, yet effective, campaign slogan: 'Vote YES for ISO standardization!'"

"We were all hyped up about it." said David Greenfield, committee member and friend. David was in Australia during the meeting, so used teleconferencing to keep in contact with the group.

Simon began the first meeting by laying down the categories for all women to fall under. According to sources, there were originally 3 labels: Easy, Fox, and Slut. These 3 labels were the ones that first caught the attention of friends. That, coupled with a picture of that-hot-chick-from-that-movie-with-that-guy, won support from chairmen of the first stage of ISO approval and deliberation. "These 3 were clear winners," said Steven Law, committee member. "I kind of influenced the 'Fox' label," claimed Steven. With an infallible hint of oestrogen in his voice he continued, "At first, I didn't want to go to the meetings, but when I discovered how many of the guys were going to be there, I just had to... be a part of it."

Ideas for how to label women, especially those more difficult to get within scent range, started cropping-up. A sniper rifle and scope with a special branding iron for the "more difficult ones" was amongst the many ideas.

Things were running smoothly, and members were anxious about the path the standard would travel and where it would take them, until Simon shocked them all by expanding the 3 categories into a staggering 7.

Michael Peacocke was astonished by the decision; "It took me completely by surprise. I was eager to hear the new categories out, but once he [Simon] started listing them... Now I regret even being at the meeting."

The revised list looked much like this: Easy, Fox, Slut, Minger, Angry Heinous Bitch, Sorority Slut, and Bowler.

"The first 3 ideas were great," Michael added, "but the other 4 really sucked! Is he pulling these out of his arse or something?"

Rexona (famous for its line of anti-perspirants), Pantene (famous for their shampoo and assorted hair-care products), Dove (for their philosophy of maintaining healthy skin), and Colgate (known for its monopoly on the toothpaste department), have banged heads together to come up with the "ultimate personal hygiene product", according to market analysts.

"This merger will reduce an entire supermarket isles to a mere shelf." says Darren McMahon, executive chairman of the new, as yet unnamed, company. "It spells the end of having to select from multiple products to get the results you want. Now you can smell pleasant, have wonderful flowing hair, gentle moisturized skin, while maintaining that shimmering smile, all in one. And what's even better, it'll only be the price of your average bottle of shampoo. To coin a commonly used phrase, it's the 'one personal hygiene product to rule them all'."

Happy with the news, supermarket shoppers are now looking forward to reduce their shopping lists dramatically. Shoppers we surveyed said the following:

"Sure, it's not every hygiene product, but it saves a lot of space on my list and trolley by sticking it all into one."

"This is going to be great! OK, I'm not all for monopolies, but anything that conveniences my day-to-day living has got to be good."

The comments have reported to call stalkers "sick", "demented", "unyielding", and even "gay". All attributes Steven Law has refuted as lies.

"Look," said Steven in a very sensitive voice, "I am deeply wounded at such remarks. I am... not sick, nor am I a demented person. I have been to [psychologists] in the past just to clear up this issue with my friends, and each of them were very satisfied with my results, being 'the closest to sane as a person can get', to quote one of them. Unyielding? Well, it is a job of persistence, and if I did yield... early, then what kind of a sleuth am I?"

When asked about the 4th attribute mentioned, Steven merely flicked his hand downwards in an un-manly fashion and refused to comment.

The women involved in the issue are continuing to fight back; slowly gathering support for their anti-stalker cause. The group (which as of yet has no official title) was started about a month ago when their founder (who wishes to remain anonymous) was followed numerous times by Steven Law when walking her younger brother home from school. She had reported the incident to the authorities, but was displeased by the response received from the police.

"It always happened as I would take accompany my younger brother home from school. I'd tell the police, and they'd say things like: 'Nonsense! Steven's always hanging out at the YMCA, and helping out the young children at the kindergarten." They believed that such a charitable person was incapable of having a sick mind." she said.

The co-founder and spearhead of the group Gemma Shaw, student of law at the prestigious Victoria University of Wellington, was willing to make her voice heard.

"Look, it's uncomfortable having this sneaky guy follow you everywhere I go: home, work, school, women's toilets. It just leaves me feeling unsafe in my own town. Sometimes I would always walk home with some of my friends, especially the boys, in hope that they would scare him away. But there was Steven, always watching. It's frightening."

The complaint letters took a week before they were brought before a select committee. Members of the all-male committee were in a fuss about what action was to be taken.

"What I don't understand is why these women have to complain to us." said esteemed MP Mr. Nikabolikov.

"It's absolute rubbish." said Mr Pencilface. "Men will always want to be close to women. Some more so than others, and some with more women than others. I mean, it's a balance of nature issue here. They have their Feminist Action Groups (acronym FAG), they get to be pregnant, and they get to have a day-off from work almost every single month!

So what are we men left with? The short end of the stick! We have our racing cars, our computers, pimping, and we aren't complaining. Stalkers are just a lesser-known male group."

"Lesser-known?" Gemma retorted when EM news brought her the select committee transcript from the meeting. "Every woman knows how scared they are when we start being tailed by a second shadow."

The new category of Most hyped-up and disappointing event in history (working title) was actually a by-product of the original intent. That intent being "...a co-ordinated strike the likes of the free world had not yet experienced..." as quoted from a manuscript of NukeZone player, The 13th Province (#119530).

"It was supposed to be the best thing we had ever done! At this precise moment, we were to all use our EMP (electro-magnetic pulse) satellites to weaken the enemy, then waltz on into his city, then loot and pillage to our heart's content!" said 13th as he wept into his favourite pillow.

Expectation within the clan, and around the world, was high.

The battle plans were distributed first as a bragging point to fellow NukeZone players, but thanks to free-flow information (the internet), it eventually reached news agencies and even high-ranking military officials in the Pentagon. Recipients were astonished at the tact and voracity of the plan.

"It was so elegant and goal-orientated. Yet simple at the same time." said US Defence Chief, Hugh G. Rection. "Sure, we had the whole 'Shock-and-Awe' thing going, but this just made Shock-and-Awe look like a squirt from a garden hose!"

Other military tacticians praised the plans. 3-time Monopoly champion Amanda Huginnkis said "...it was to be the best thing since the original Trojan Horse".

Strategists, tacticians and interest groups from various gaming regimes and parts of the world looked to the moment of reckoning with great optimism.

"It's just so damn good... how can it ever fail?" said World Champion Risk player, Yule Sukmeov. "There's just these golden moments in life that you have to be there for: watching the Berlin wall crumble, witnessing your first-born come into the world. This moment stacks-up, if not greater."

As the world waited eagerly for the hour of 10:00 CET, members of NukeZone clan, [7days] The Ring (#31737), took their places. As the hour struck, satellites from out of nowhere, reigned down hell so malevolently, causing the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse to re-write their script.

Once the blasts subsided, mighty navies consisting mainly of destroyer-class vessels began moving in from almost every water-pass available. Overhead radar had an impressive shot of a ring of dots closing in on the target province. Several witnesses claim to have heard the line, "7 days..." during these moments, but these reports were quickly dismissed upon the discovery of class A drugs in their possession.

In an unprecedented move that would upset the relations between the US and the Asian continent, senator Al Gore put the idea before the senate and gave his motion for approval.

Secret tapes taken from the meeting quote Gore calling the Asian people "small", "yellow", "useless at English", and "a drawback to the US economy".

Further sources have revealed that Senator Caption was the first to back the motion, continuing Gore's Asian-bashing comments with sentences reminiscent of right-wing separatist groups and the 3rd Reich.

"These guys just don't get it!" he said. "You'd think that... immigration laws would deter these [people] from entering our country. But they come by the boatload; we arrest them, and send them back! And... they just keep coming!"

"What the good Senator fails to realize, is that there are billions of Asians, and that different people come with different boats." said a renowned professor at Michigan State.

"Gah, they all look the same to me." replied Caption.

The group receiving the cash injection, 'the Guys who Hate Asian Youth' Group (acronym GHAY.), is astonished by the sudden decision. "Wow! We're abso-fuckin'-lutely ecstatic! It's time to give those squinty-eyed punks a push back to the seas, or at least their home countries." commented Hugh G. Rection, founder of GHAY's Anti-Asian Policy.

When asked about the origins of their name, Mr Rection said, "Well, it started when... I was young. These Asian kids kept stealing all the maths questions, which I was supposed to answer. I felt our 3rd grade victory was wrongfully stolen from us. And so, the group started with young Asians. Then as I grew older, I realized that there were older Asians too, but our members thought a name change would be too difficult.

"We had 'Move Away Now Heinous Orientals' (acronym MANHO), but just felt it didn't have the same ring to it."

What was even more surprising was the time spent approving the motion. In a record 10 minutes, the unanimous decision was reached.

"Sure, we first thought, 'Gee, this might not go down so well with the people', but then we realized, 'Heck, we don't really need Asians do we?'" said Senator Mornutz.

The Asian people feel they have been betrayed.

"Why they do this to us? We not harm them wrong?' said a saleswoman in NYC Chinatown, before men in black suits drove by and escorted her into their limousine.

"Those plicks will feel fire! Death to America!" shouted a passer-by.

"Kekekekekekeke ^_^." said a Korean in an undecipherable language.