Saturday, July 17, 2004

Bloody hell

Had to spend Thursday and Friday on the premises of one fine customer in a fine small town in the middle of fucking nowhere way beyond Kehä III. The fine town is not blessed with public transportation, but is still too big to make it possible to get around by walking, especially when dragging around a ton of equipment. There is one bus going at some ungodly hour in the morning from the railway station to the customer's plant; the only way to get back is to bum a ride off someone. In order to be on time for the bus I have to get up at 6.

Thursday was totally fucked. Got up at 6; went to sleep at 2 after finishing writing the piece of software that was supposed to work by the next morning, and set the alarm clock for 6am. 20-hour days don't agree with me very well, especially not if I have to start the next day 4 hours later. Although it wasn't really a 20-hour-workday - I took several hours off in the evening to hang out with Killeri. Anyway, in the morning Markus (a coworker) and I missed our bus, or rather the bus missed us: we were there and the bus wasn't. Had to bum a ride off one guy.

There was two of us and one crappy little laptop with a tiny keyboard. Half the time the laptop had to be attached to the... well, let's call that machine a fucklift. The other half we had to share a desk with two fine teenage employees, who talked loudly, played a radio loudly and sometimes sang along with it. I'd never imagined there exists a human being who has a nastier singing voice and less of a musical ear than myself, and now I found two of them. Considering that my singing usually causes my even nearests and dearest friends to throw shoes at me (real friends throw shoes without hard sharp parts, of course), and considering that the fine employees were not my friends, it's amazing I did not strangle them with an extension cord. OTOH, I was sort of a guest there, and strangling people with extension cords is probably the kind of behavior that is unworthy of a guest.

By noon we figured that somebody has to write a piece of software that tells us what the hell do the numbers that come out of the fucklift mean, and I buggered off to do exactly that. Managed to write it and it even worked the next day. Friday was marked by fucked-up minicom settings and more atrocious enthusiastic singing from the girls. Well, at least everything works now.

The place has no open cafeteria, no way to get anywhere for lunch except other people's cars, and no tea.

I am going there again sometime next week. Oh joy...

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