by Rob Maller
Memoirs
of a Junior Tubeologist by Rob Maller
Pre-Precursors
to writing
What
follows is a series of diary style blog entries, musings, short
stories and poems written by a 22 year old Maller, predominantly
whilst working on a production line and trying to work out what to do
with his life.
Precursor to writings
At roughly 12 noon on the 22 June 2012, I officially became a master of chemistry with upper second class honours. Despite the crippling recession, and unlike a number of my friends, I had big plans following graduation. I had a job lined up, a flat to stay in for free (with cheap rent, a pool and gym in the basement and one of those guys who smiles at you when you walk into the building), and future plans to relocate the USA to conquer the world. I then, and somehow the plan rested upon this not happening, became quite inconveniently single and about as clueless as to what to do with my life as Nick Clegg is about... well pretty much everything.
Precursor to writings
At roughly 12 noon on the 22 June 2012, I officially became a master of chemistry with upper second class honours. Despite the crippling recession, and unlike a number of my friends, I had big plans following graduation. I had a job lined up, a flat to stay in for free (with cheap rent, a pool and gym in the basement and one of those guys who smiles at you when you walk into the building), and future plans to relocate the USA to conquer the world. I then, and somehow the plan rested upon this not happening, became quite inconveniently single and about as clueless as to what to do with my life as Nick Clegg is about... well pretty much everything.
So
as you can imagine I, as any sensible person would, went to see a
careers advisor, spoke to my professors, spoke with my parents and
found the best way forward. Nah! I went on holiday with my mate and
spent all my money on beer, hotels and a trip to Hooters.
When
I returned I found myself back living with my parents in a tiny
office room in which my dad woke me up at 08.30 to stare grumpily at
a computer screen (he works from home roughly in IT). Whilst being
cooked for was nice, and the food in the fridge was vastly superior
to our student fridge, I became increasing bored, and increasingly
broke.
The job market was about as buoyant as a lead
balloon, so I decided then that a PhD was probably my first choice of
plan B (it looked more fun than selling paint in Bishop Stortford,
which was the only interview I got so far). So I spent my day
furiously applying to universities at home and abroad.
Whilst
I was waiting for that dream PhD, preferably from the University of
Barbados, I realised I needed some money to keep me going. I was
successful in this endeavour at least, which brings me to the reason
for these writings.
The employment which I have acquired
is a job on a production line making medicinal tubing. Whilst this
sounds dreadful, it is not the worse job I have ever had. I shall
describe my role. I sit at the end of a small conveyor belt which
brings small plastic tubes (465mm long with a 1.67mm diameter) and
stacks them next to me. Once it has stacked 125 of these tubes, I am
to place them in a box on my left and repeat until the box is full,
whereupon I get a new box and repeat. Every 30 minutes or so, I must
measure these tubes to see if they are still 465mm long and have a
1.67mm diameter. Every hour I must put more plastic into a feed at
start of the machine. It takes roughly 6 minutes for the machine to
stack up 125 tubes. The saving grace of this job is that in these 6
minutes I am allowed to read my book or entertain myself how best I
like.
I have started reading War and Peace for example.
Whilst I enjoy reading I have been struggling to do it 8 hours a day.
I have decided to make notes on some of the less evil thoughts I have
during these 6 minute intervals, when my book cannot fully satisfy
me. This is my third day working here but as it is my first day of
writing I shall call it:
Day
one
I
was thinking of a job title for my work. It needs to be flashy and
impressive without losing sight of what I actually do. I have a few
options: junior tubeologist, assistant tubular redistributor,
operational tubeulation specialist, tubular dynamics engineer and The
Tubeinator. I shall put them to my boss and see what he thinks is
most appropriate.
I'm becoming quite attached to my tubes.
As such I've decided to honour them with poetry:
Ode
to a tube
Oh you small beautiful miracle,
You make me
feel so lyrical,
It must be your soft translucent exterior,
The
semi lucid view to your interior,
Where you hold my heart
ensnared
Yet,
if I could dare
To scalpel open and stare
Cut into your
minds lair
I might see what's truly there,
Is nothing but
plastic and air.
As
the counter ticks monotonously towards 125, I have been thinking what
else I could do in 6 minutes if I could teleport anywhere in the
world and afterwards I would respawn next to my tube machine in time
to put the 125 tubes in their box. Here are my top five things I
would do:
1.
Jump out of a plane and free-fall for 5.59 minutes towards an
erupting volcano.
2.
Teleport to the start of a Usain Bolt race and spend the 5.50 minutes
before the race secretly tying myself on to a pair of roller skates
attached to him.
3.
Teleport to a platform above Mitt Romney and wee on him for 1 mins
whilst he is speaking (the first five minutes will be me overcoming
my problems with weeing under pressure).
4.
Track down Hassim Amla and spend the time learning how he grows that
wonderful beard.
5.
Find J.K Rowling and interrogate her about one of my long standing
beliefs, that she is employed by the Ministry of Magic to make us
muggles believe magic belongs in storybooks. Once I have acquired the
truth from her, I shall sell my secrecy for a late placement at
Hogwarts on a quidditch scholarship.
Rob’s
work station, including “War and Peace”
Day
Two
I
have decided that I am quite bored of my appearance, I think the
jeans and t-shirt does not turn enough heads. I don’t think I’m
depressed enough to be an emo/goth, pretentious enough to be a
hipster, too old to be a skater and my current profession doesn't
scream businessman. I think the only option left is to habitually
dress chemist. I will require a new lab coat, I think in sunset
orange, some bad ass safety specs maybe with varifocal written on
them, and a hairstyle that suggests I blew something up this morning.
My only set back is that I don't know what to wear on my feet. I
could wear diving flippers (which hold a special place in my heart
and are loosely connected to losing my virginity) but I can't help
but feel this persona may end up with me in the loony bin. Oh boy my
tubes are ready!
I have just received an email informing
me that I have an interview for a PhD, woohoo! I looked up some
interview tips on the internet.
1. Stand out from the crowd, I
have decided to do this literally and make sure there is no one
within 3 paces of me at all times.
2.
Give a good firm handshake. A friend gave me some advice to have a
cup of coffee before so I have warm hands but I disagree, it is a
cold hard world and I should really emulate this with my handshake. I
shall therefore fill my pockets with dry ice to surprise him with an
arctic vice grip to let him know I’m ready for the real world. Also
the dry ice smoke trail as I enter will blow him away.
3.
Prepare some questions to ask the interviewer. This is clearly to put
them on the back foot and give you power over them. I shall
investigate the relationship of the interviewer with his father. The
chap is Scottish so I assume that there will be some tension with him
betraying his country and moving to England. I shall ask what
Bannockburn meant to his father and if this coincides with his
beliefs. I shall then enquire after his sexual orientation and give
him a long hard look after whatever the answer. Once I have claimed
the power in the interview room I can demand he gives me the role.
4.
Make eye contact with the interviewer. You can't get too much of a
good thing so I shall staple my eyes open and make sure I don't break
contact for the entire interview. I'm feeling confident now. I just
need to buy a stapler and the PhD is mine.
Day
three
Spent
swatting for my interview.
Topics
included:
N-heterocyclic
carbenes
Photonic
materials
Pulsed
laser deposition
Day
four
Spent
being interviewed.
Topics
not mentioned:
N-heterocyclic
carbenes
Photonic
materials
Pulsed
layer deposition
Day
five
So
I completely bailed on my interview plans (mainly because I couldn't
get hold of dry ice) and went in like a normal person. I even wore a
suit…with a tie…which was blue. One of the lab group kindly
pointed out to the good doctor interviewing me, that whilst looking
super smart in my suit, she could clearly make out my superman socks.
I should have said: it’s because I’m superhuman at chemistry.
What I actually said was: oops. Hopefully he likes superman. I’m to
find out in the next week or so if I’m successful. Wish me
luck.
I've been thinking about politics and here is my
idea for a better Britain. I shall order a sub-machine gun from eBay,
walk into the house of commons and have a pop at anyone wearing a
blue, red or yellow tie. I’d then wander across to Hyde Park on
Sunday morning and (at gunpoint) force anyone walking a dog to put on
one of my collected ties and carry on where the old guys left off. At
my trial a few months down the line I shall point out how much better
our country is and I shall be knighted rather than jailed.
There
comes a time in a man’s life when something happens to them which
is so awful and unwarranted that the only response to it is a very
strongly worded letter. This time happened to me today and, to add
insult to injury, it happened at my favourite time of day: lunch. As
I sat down to my lunch box lovingly prepared by my mother I had no
idea of the abomination within. And no my mother wasn't to blame, it
was those scoundrels at Burton’s Foods. Inside the seductive blue
wrapping, inside the chocolate coating and inside the soft luscious
marshmallow I to my horror found not one droplet of jam. Yes that's
right: my Jammie Wagon Wheel was barren, impotent, hollow and
soulless. I reread the wrapping and the proud subtitle that read
Jammie in large red letters which seemed to mock my unsatisfied
palate, To make matters worse it was the end of my break. Such brutal
mis-advertising should not go un-complained about, and thus I have
drafted a letter:
With contempt and disgust I address the
complaints department at Wagon Wheel.
Today I encountered
the very worst in confectionery standards, the likes that I hope
humanity will never experience again.
I abhor the selling
of non-jammie Wagon Wheels, which on a tragic day a proud Englishman
may unfortunately endure as a Tesco replacement to your unparalleled
masterpiece. That I can take, although a more bitter pill is hard to
find. But to remove my jam without a warning is unthinkable. I do not
hope to profit from your mistake only to protect the public from a
repeat offence.
I therefore ask, nay demand, for the title
of your Jammie Wagon Wheel to be altered to a Nearly Always Jammie
Wagon Wheel, thus forewarning people of the potential
heartbreak.
Yours with disdain.
Mr Robert
Maller MChem
Unplanned
Saturday log
I
am visiting a friend who lives in Purley (kinda London) with two
other friends. We were picked up by my friend in a white van. There
was no space in the front so I have been unceremoniously thrown in
the back. I think this is what it feels like to be kidnapped. It's
dark in here. And bumpy. We seem to be going quite far…my eyes have
adjusted and I have found that I am sharing my prison with an old
tyre and a wooden pallet. I think they are going to be my new
friends.
We
are still travelling. I think I may have actually been abducted. I
can't hear any words from the front. Maybe I should call the
police…but what should I say? All hope is lost.
Ahem...we
have arrived and thus my ordeal is over but a more harrowing 10
minutes would be hard to think of. Oh well I shall drink away my
sorrows. Then I shall dance them away…
Day
six
I’d
like to say a few words about honesty. I feel that it is very
important in life and if everyone was always entirely honest then all
the world's problems would be solved. In the spirit of this I shall
come clean. This is not really day 6. Last week I suffered a brutal
injury which prevented me from writing (at least on my phone). My
sprained thumb was earned in a glorious 50-0 footballing triumph. A
lot has happened in the last week. I am no longer merely a man who
puts tubes in boxes. No sir I am not, I have now gained the respect
and envy of my peers by being the man who also facilitates the
winding of 30 meters of tubing onto reels and then puts the reels
into a box. I think this could be the start of something special.
It’s ok to be jealous. But hold on, my pride has caused me to
become sidetracked. I was speaking about honesty.
An
old friend of mine (whom I have known since we were 5 years old)
revealed to me in the presence of a rather pretty if somewhat naive
looking girl that he was actually half Italian, a quarter Dutch and
his real name is Antonio. What's more he informed her about several
aspects of his personality which he had not revealed to me. To lie to
me for so long is really hurtful and the lengths he must have gone to
in order to maintain this lie are staggering. He must have, from a
young age, bribed the teachers at school to refer to him by a fake
name on the register. I thought I had met his parents, both of whom
were clearly English, but he must have been employing actors for all
of our meetings (sending them to the local supermarket gave them a
really authentic image). To act a certain way in my presence for 17
years, which is so contrary to what he disclosed to this girl about
what he is actually like, is heartbreaking. That girl is so bloody
lucky to receive his honesty. So I urge you good people not to allow
anyone to suffer in the way I have and just tell the truth.
It
has been over a week now since I had my interview and still no news.
I think in this situation that no news is probably not good news…
On a totally unrelated note I have written another poem. I recited my
last poem to my family and received a fair amount of criticism. Real
poems apparently don't rhyme and have far more poetic devices. I
therefore present:
Ode
to why people who don't give me the job are wankers
Cold,
calculating, callous, cock
Bang! With onomatopoeia you
slam the metaphoric door on our dream team.
You with
clouded eyes of a cataractic dog blindly look past intellect
You
with a soft brain like week old snow which has turned to brown mush,
are much more likely to find the end of a rainbow than succumb to
reason.
You with a shallow heart of absolute
zero
Compassion will never know the gentle touch of my
chemistry on your zinc nanotubes
You are
Without
question
A total and complete
Wank
Err
If
I was a type of punctuation I think I would be a question mark. I
would be mysterious compared to a full stop. Less o-t-t than an
exclamation mark. More final than a comma. Better used than a semi
colon and less chore-y than a colon. Alas the question mark is
king…isn't it?
Day
seven
Sometimes
we as a species make judgements about people, we say things out of
grief and anger which do not represent our real beliefs on an object
or even on a person. I as an individual made this error yesterday and
would like (as is perhaps our species greatest merit) to atone for
this error. After my poetic outburst I returned home and sent a
polite email enquiring if the kind and handsome doctor had indeed
slammed the door on our dream team. The returned email spoke of
apologies for delays, a pushed back start date and he stated and I
quote “we were very pressed by you”. I am to find out this
Friday. If I’m honest I don't actually know what pressed means,
other than what they do to apples at Copella, but it must be good
(because Copella is bloody awesome). I have therefore concocted I new
poem expressing my real feelings not clouded by resentment:
Ode to that fine fellow who might still give me the job.
To
say that sun shines from you rear
Is to undersell you I
fear
Because from every orifice I see light shining.
Your
eyes clear I see as a bright winter dawn’s first beam
Your
mouth warm gives the sunset of a midsummer dream
Your ears
open as the oceans dance and glitter
With phosphorescent and
whipped up spray
And from every pore I see hope kindle
and flicker
Like a taxi’s light or a low burnt candle on
Valentines day.
And
to give a chance to you and I,
For however long the time would
fly,
With wisdom, wit and wilful glee
We could make some
chemistry
If I was to say a sad goodbye to the
tubes and return to being a student I would have to up sticks and
move to London. I have a few friends about London but none of them
are available to become my new flatmates. I also have no intention of
living on my own. I feel this journal would become longer and (if
possible) weirder. I have been advised to look on gumtree for people
looking for someone to fill a room. I might end up making lifelong
friends or being forced to become rent boy in a crack den. In my time
I have had good flatmates (ones who bring home cookies every Monday
and like to clean) strange flatmates (ones with a phobia of tomatoes
and a habit of spending whole days wearing just a towel and watching
chess on the internet) and bad flatmates (shan't go into details). I
have used my experiences to devise a list of the top five most
desirable flatmate professions:
1. Primary school teacher
- if the TV shows - New Girl and How I Met Your Mother have taught me
anything they are hot but not too glamorous, a bit kookie, tidy and
have cool backgrounds in sci fi.
2. A butcher - nothing is
more important to my home life than good food. The most important
part of good food is good meat. As I once again become a poverty
stricken student I will no longer be able to enjoy the fine cuts I
desire (deserve). Living with a butcher seems the only option. Also
he would be our hard man if we got in a fight (have you ever seen a
butcher who wouldn't look good in a pair of knuckle dusters)
3.
A nurse - When in the cold depths of winter I am inevitably struck
down with a crippling case of manly flu I want a professional to
comfort me and steal me an adequate supply of prescription drugs.
Also fancy dress parties would be no problem.
4. A
politician - they undoubtedly will be a borderline alcoholic so in
the wee hours of a Friday night we can discuss global policy changes
which will save the world. Then unlike the other victims of my
drunken genius come Monday morning he can do something with my
plans.
5. A talented (but not famous) musician - their
role is to join me in my poverty so I have someone to do poor people
activities with like not tipping cab drivers/hairdressers and
drinking Sainsbury's basics cider. On top of this they will know
where all the good parties are. NB - band practice must happen
elsewhere.
I am coming to the end of my book and therefore
in need of a new one. I have recently been reading a smart person
book followed by a trashy book and so on. I am 50 pages from the end
of War and Peace (well worth a read, I may review it once I am done)
and therefore consider that I have earned something really trashy. JK
Rowling's new book is out but my sister is reading it and I think I
can allow myself something even trashier. My mind keeps turning
towards EL James and the her(?) famous 50 shades of grey (white being
1 and black 50?). This has some disadvantages in loss of respect from
co-workers, awkward boners, enduring an apparently terrible plot and
the dreadful possibility of perhaps wanting to read the next one. But
on the up side there is an outside chance of improving my sexual
prowess and I'll get to know what the smeg all the women are talking
about.
Kinda excited about the impending release of Red Dwarf X.
I do hope it's good. May watch some classic robot wars to prepare
myself. C'mon hypno disc!
Just to let you know my friend
Antonio blew it with that pretty but naive by being too honest.
Granted that honesty involved telling her to bring condom to their
first date but still something to think about… On a side note he
revealed to her in my presence that his visa is running out so he
will have to return to his native Italy soon. I'm gonna miss him.
Day
eight
A
company, like a tube machine, can run smoothly and efficiently if and
only if all the cogs are well oiled, maintained and working together.
In many ways it is like a bee hive. The bee keeper (or tube overlord)
is the kind gentleman who employed me and is the owner of the
company. He doesn't immediately work in the hive, but watches over
its progress and only intervenes when absolutely necessary. He
installs a queen bee and sells the honey (tubes) produced. The queen
bee (master of tubes) is in charge of the lab, he makes sure that all
the bees are performing and directs the quantity and type of honey
produced. He also installs new bees when a bee decides to find a new
hive. Then there are the worker bees (tube doctors) who make sure the
honeycombs (tube machines) are correctly in place and making honey
and fixes them when they are not, the bee who makes sure the honey is
made right (tube inspector) and lastly the honey bees (the senior
tubeologist and myself - junior tubeologist) who collect the nectar
(some type of vinyl chloride) put it in the honeycomb to make the
honey.
All the jobs are equally important for the selling
of the honey (although not equally paid) and if one bee is not
performing the whole colony suffers. The same is true of the cogs in
the tube machine and in a company. Today one of the cogs cocked up.
One of the pen pushing cogs (who probably hasn't touched a tube in
her life), the bee keeper's wife, who prints to labels to go on the
honey pots. But rather than writing honey better known as ZAB 2088204
she wrote ZAB -
2088204, she might have well written Marmite for the two are that far
apart. And so it was that rather than making honey this morning I had
to unpack 180 individual reels of tube and re-label them. She is
clearly a rusty cog and should be driven from the hive.
The
bee keeper has another hive in his garden (last bee reference I
swear) which I can see through the glass windows. It is a science lab
and is another part of the business. It was actually this colony
(really the last one) I applied to but the position was(p) already
filled so I was offered this job instead. I know that they work on
something to do with air pollution but as I see them busily buzzing
(like flies) around the lab looking productive I can't help but feel
there must be something magical going on in there whilst we just
bumble (what? that’s a normal word!) around in here. I would just
go in and ask but the Polish woman in charge is quite scary and I
might be stung (as in by a nettle) for asking silly questions. I bet
they set off small nuclear devices and test for radioactive isotopes
in the air but no, if that was true there would be black and yellow
markings to show danger (like the kind on hover-flies mimicking other
dangerous flying insects such as hornets). Maybe it's best I don't
know so as to keep the mystery ahive. (ok ok I'll beehave for the
next post)
(Sing along if you like Abba)
The
bee keeper has another hive in his garden (last bee reference I
swear) which I can see through the glass windows. It is a science lab
and is another part of the business. It was actually this colony
(really the last one) I applied to but the position was(p) already
filled so I was offered this job instead. I know that they work on
something to do with air pollution but as I see them busily buzzing
(like flies) around the lab looking productive I can't help but feel
there must be something magical going on in there whilst we just
bumble (what? that’s a normal word!) around in here. I would just
go in and ask but the Polish woman in charge is quite scary and I
might be stung (as in by a nettle) for asking silly questions. I bet
they set off small nuclear devices and test for radioactive isotopes
in the air but no, if that was true there would be black and yellow
markings to show danger (like the kind on hover-flies mimicking other
dangerous flying insects such as hornets). Maybe it's best I don't
know so as to keep the mystery ahive. (ok ok I'll beehave for the
next post)
(Sing along if you like Abba)
I
saw from my chair last night, your hair so bright,
Fernando.
You’ve
been scoring goals for you and me,
and for
Chelsea,
Fernando
Though
I never thought you could move
Have no regrets
If I had the
choice like you my friend I’d do the same
Fernando
I'm
not ashamed to admit that I have an undying love for Fernando Torres
which transcends form and clubs. I'm a fan of Plymouth Argyle but
follow Liverpool in the EPL. My love for him was actually born when I
brought him to Mansfield Town from Athletico Madrid on FIFA ‘06,
where he settled in very well next to Francesco Totti. He is now
captain of my fantasy football team and this song is in honour to the
11 points he earned last weekend (played for 90 minutes and produced
a goal, an assist and picking up two bonus points in the process)
Day
nine
I
was talking to a fellow master of chemistry last night about elements
and moles and stuff. On a slight tangent from our hardcore quantum
debate he challenged me to write a haiku. I replied “Bless you!
write a what?” but after a quick google I accepted master donut’s
challenge. So here it is:
Ode
to a Japanese tube
A tube made just right
My wish may
come true one day
Man was born to hope
But a tube
made wrong
Can be born with much more ease
I
can't help but cry.
My
other activities last night involved a trip to the local pub with
Antonio (yet to be deported). This pub was filled with real locals,
the kind you can only meet in a village pub on a Wednesday night. At
the pub we met a psychic in the smoking area (nasty Italian habit);
she had a strange accent which could only be described as Irish but
it was neither northern nor southern tongue. It wasn't even gypsy.
Her psychic ability was confirmed by the fact she had pulled the
jackpot out the fruity and knew that she was going to before she
played (sadly this miracle happened earlier in the evening - doubly
sad as she bought drinks all round). She proceeded to tell us how the
pub was haunted and she had witnessed the ghost. A frightful tale it
was too. One stormy night (I assume) and alone in the bar with only
the pub cat for company (and probably bar staff) she felt an
unworldly inclination towards the bathroom. Unsuspectingly she opened
the door which let out a dreadful squeak as if to warn of the
paranormal inside. Dumbstruck her eyes gave proof to what in her
heart she already knew. And this in turn gave solidity to all other
theories she lay awake at night thinking on - vampires, astrology,
dragons and homeopathy, even leprechauns all turned from myths to
reality before her. For in the bathroom, the taps were on but nobody
was there. By the 5th telling I became utterly convinced…
There
was no way she was Irish.
Upon leaving she demanded kiss,
(thankfully on the cheek) there isn't enough soap in the world.
Day
ten
So
today is the day I’m supposed to find out about the PhD. I don't
know by what means of correspondence I am to find out by, but all our
past correspondences have been in email. If this remains the case I
should find out on my shift.
It is now 09:16 and I need to
prepare myself for the results. It feels a bit like getting my degree
classification. This time however I'm not hanging like William
Wallace before being drawn and quartered by a bus journey along
Scotland’s windiest, windiest roads by its swerviest, draftiest bus
(from Fort Augustus to Edinburgh) towards what I considered certain
to be crushing failure. Amusingly, when I was arriving into Edinburgh
the results were about to go out and I was still on the bus,
inevitably delayed due to congestion and a missed connection (because
of which I was forced to huddle behind a remote bus shelter in Perth
for an hour). I knew Edinburgh quite well having lived there for four
years and recognised that I was close to campus. So to arrive to the
university more quickly I told some horrific lies to the bus driver
and convinced him to let me off at an unscheduled stop.
I
got off and checked google maps…turned out I was in Queensferry
which is roughly an hour and a half walk away. So had to suck up my
pride and hail a cab. The fare cost me double that of the bus from
near Inverness but I guess that's karma. The story had a happy ending
of course so all's well that ends well.
Truth be told I am
slightly more confident then I was for my degree. It is likely that
this is a bad thing and so (like Rimmer did last night in Red Dwarf)
I need to prepare myself for failure. Thus, if I succeed the joy is
greater and if I fail the pain is diminished. That's the theory
anyway. To do this I shall now write as if I have not got the
PhD.
It is now 10:47 and the bad news is yet to come. On
my break one of the polish girls somehow clocked my poetic tendencies
(must have been the far away look in my eye…certainly not my
recital of Ode to a tube…cough) and demanded a poem to be written
about her. I usually would charge but to distract myself from the
pain of not getting the PhD I'll do it for free (who am I kidding,
I'ma poem hussey and would do it for anyone). Anyway here it
is:
Ode
to a Pole:
Oh
you soft Polish miracle
You’ve demanded I be lyrical
And
I don’t mean to be cynical
But your dark semi-lucid
eyes
Give me no clue as to what’s inside
And if I
scalpelled you open and stared
You’d probably run away
scared
So if you want to ensnare my heart
There’s only
one place to start
And the solution is easy my
dear
Although to others it might sound queer
Now I know to
ask this is rude
But would you turn into a tube?
It
is 11:52 and my inbox is still dormant (soon to erupt with bad news).
I have planned a trip to see the bright lights of Basingstoke
tonight. Now although I already know that I didn't get it (i can feel
the negativity working already), I have realised that the outcome of
today may seriously affect tonight's festivities. There are three
possible outcome leading to three possible nights.
Night 1
(the night which will occur): Confirmation of my failure - I come
back from work in a state of depression, as I have already committed
to this night out I will start my drinking early and continue heavily
until I lose sight of the reason for my depression (and everything
else probably). My choice of drink will be dark rum and coke…and
lots of it. I will end up crying on Antonio’s shoulder by 10pm and
continue until he leaves me. All the beautiful women of Basingstoke
will be impressed with my sensitivity and fight over the right to
console me.
Night 2 (delayed doom): I receive no email
today at all - I come back from work and check my emails every 10
minutes in some vain hope, until my commitments to the night out
prevent me from doing so. I drink lightly and absent-mindedly. Drink
choice - about 2 beers which are nursed for hours. I am not in the
mood to dance so sit looking into space until Antonio gets so bored
of me that he leaves. All the beautiful women of Basingstoke will
admire my distantness and fight for the right to ‘really get to
know me’.
Night 3 (so distant a possibility that it is
barely worth writing about): the PhD is mine - I get home in a
rapturous mood but am prevented from drinking immediately by forming
plans for my future and phoning everyone I know. I eventually crack
open a bottle of my home-made raspberry wine (which mother insists I
save till Christmas). I then move on the my tipple of choice - Gin2O
consisting of 1 part gin 1 part orange juice and 1 part cranberry
juice, served in a small tumbler over crushed ice with an umbrella in
it. I go to town in far too good a mood and inevitably buy OTHER
people drinks (something I'm afraid I'm not well known for). In
jovial mood I sing Queen songs until Antonio leaves me in disgust.
All the beautiful women of Basingstoke, impressed by my evident love
of life, fight over the right to sing a duet with me.
So
it is 15:12 and I think night two is drawing nearer and nearer. I
think the state of uncertainty is the one humans deal with worst. It
causes conditions such as stress, anxiety, fear of the dark and the
belief in ghosts and other higher beings - as proven by the example
of our pseudo Irish lady from Wednesday night, and her uncertainty as
to the cause of the taps being on. We seek to remove it as quickly as
possible and often jump to hasty far-fetched conclusions to relieve
ourselves of this anxiety. Yet I believe it is the time we spend in
uncertainty which makes our lives worth living, making them new and
different every day. Would love be so intoxicating if it were a
certainty? It is thus that girl you might be able to get is so much
more enchanting than that the girl you are certain to get. Take a
high jumper, the height he is certain to make gives you no
excitement, it is the height you might be able to clear that causes
such joy if they succeed. A mathematician who attempts an equation
which has never been solved is driven to sit in front of his desk for
hours digging for that brilliant unknown solution. The longer you
remain in a state of uncertainty the more you want the girl, that
height and that answer. Our souls crave uncertainty, however, it is
not a comfortable state to be in. This causes us to shy away from it;
like the boy who is too nervous to talk to the pretty girl, or the
water my spaniel eyed so longingly for a year before jumping in.
Those of you who feel in a rut - seek it out, pin it down and conquer
it. Then find some more. So I would like to thank Mr (Dr) PhD man.
Today I felt properly alive in a state of anxious excitement
unrivalled by comfortable trivial life. The wait only makes me want
it more. If you wouldn’t mind however, in telling me soon, because
while this uncertainty is exciting, these tubes are properly dull.
It’s 17:00 and no email. Serves me right for building it up I
guess.
Fuck night two, I could use a drink!
Day
eleven
I'm
sorry folks this is gonna be quite a short entry for a rather big
day. This is due to the rather annoying fact that today at work I
was, believe it or not, made to work. Not that my job role changed
much; today I put 15 meters of coiled tubes into bags. It turns out
that I'm shite as this. It took all my time and caused some
frustration, this however wasn't gonna get me down today.
At
10:11 I received a text message from those chaps Vodafone informing
me of a voicemail. I have recently lost some faith in Vodafone. This
might be connected with father forcing me to pay my own phone bill -
I know life's tough eh? At 10:15 I went on my coffee break (12:30 is
lunch break, 15:15 is tea break) and missed out on my coffee to hear
the message. Who should it be but Mr Dr PhD-man who, with his
enchanting brogue, detailed me his intention to offer me a position
at his fine establishment (a certain non-metric former college of the
university of London). I tried to call back and bite his hand off but
those slackers at Vodafone withdrew my signal and I had to return to
those damned 15 meter coils.
On my tea break (on which I
missed my tea - a bad day for caffeine) we finally spoke and I
promptly chewed upon his hand until it was removed.
It is
now 16:10 and I have finished those coils so with my time left I have
written a short victory poem:
Ode
to fuck yeah
Oh let's prance and sing with unbound
delight
For cometh the end of my tubular plight
The
messenger of most modest means
A text from 121 to fulfil my
dreams
The sweet Scottish sound of the Glasgow great
Like
the song of a capercaillie
he seals my fate
The capital I go for some strenuous study
Ill
synthesise hard til by fingers are bloody
And so under my breath
so no one can hear
Then loud and proud i've nothing to fear
I
cry out my call til the tubes tremor
Coarse, unrefined in
glorious tenor
Fuck Yeah
Fuck Yeah
Fuck Yeah.
The capital I go for some strenuous study
Ill
synthesise hard til by fingers are bloody
And so under my breath
so no one can hear
Then loud and proud i've nothing to fear
I
cry out my call til the tubes tremor
Coarse, unrefined in
glorious tenor
Fuck Yeah
Fuck Yeah
Fuck Yeah.
Day
Twelve
This
it seems is to be my final week working as a Junior Tubeologist and
as such this may be the fourth to last entry (heartbreaking I know).
It is possible that this journal may perhaps live on in some form or
another. I am undecided.
Although rather late in they day
I decided to ask the Polish girls to teach me some of the basics of
their language. It is not going that well…I have spent about 30
minutes trying to pronounce hello. I think it is spelt cześć. The
dots mean that the both the c and s become sounds which don't exist
in English. Also c and z only team up in imported foreign words, so
basically I can only correctly pronounce the e in the middle. Still I
am persevering. I have been told that cz is kinda like ssch and ść
is a slightly different ssch. So to practice I give each tube to
honour me by joining my pile a poorly delivered Polish greeting. I
just hope that I don't disorientate the poor little chaps.
This
afternoon I have been told that I will be working on smack tubes.
They sound very exciting. I have may some predictions as to what they
could be.
1. A set of large tubes which have been
reinforced with alloy rods of steel, zinc and unobtainium (ruthlessly
mined from the planet Pandora). They are mostly used for beating down
enemy agents of industubeal espionage.
2. Ultra thin tubes
used for the subtle and constant consumption of hard recreational
drugs. Some are given away free to the drug lords of Winchester in
exchange for keeping the government off our backs whist we export all
over the world.
3. Made from a newly discovered
‘superplastic’ they were commissioned in secret by the
operational gadget specialist in MI6 as part of a daredevil plot to
overthrow the oppressive…
...I've just got to the job.
Smac tubes are the same as this morning’s tubes but 20mm
longer…fml.
I take it back, Smac tubes are a hell of a
lot worse. Their increased length has made them rebellious and they
have become unruly. It will require all my professional skills to
tame them so I'm afraid there will be no more writings today…
Day
thirteen
The
excitement in getting the PhD is starting to die down now is the face
of the many hours of tubeology I have undertaken since receiving the
news. It has been replaced with practical things, like terror. Where
am I going to live? What if my colleges are crazy axe murderers? What
if I'm actually crap at chemistry? What if my lab coat does suit me?
What the entire correspondence from the advert to offer was a set up
by an up-and-coming tubeulation specialist after my job? Maybe
tubeology is a better path for me, I'm sure in a couple of years, if
I worked really hard, I could make senior tubeologist.
I
just found out that they have already chosen another honeybee to
replace me (if you don't understand what I mean by honeybee then read
day 8, but beeware you may have to wade through some honeycombically
bad puns. You have been swarmned). Although I am but a lowly juniour
tubeologist, I am slightly miffed that they have someone else only
two days later. Am I that replaceable? Don't answer that. What if the
tubes don't like him. It all seems too soon, it screams
conspiracy.
Ok I’ve seen him. He looks cunning and
scheming. I'm convinced. I must go to the tube overlord and beg for
my job back.
Good news, it's all ok. After some gentle
interrogation I have intel on him. And can you believe it, he's not
even trained in tubeology (i know I wasn't either but I had
staggering natural ability). There is no way he can fill my boots and
I'm sure I will be sorely missed. This is of vital importance when
leaving a job, in the mayhem which follows my departure my hard work
will be fully appreciated.
I sometimes, and this is one of
those times, wonder what it would be like to be a plant. Would I have
any awareness as to what's around me? If so, life would be an
exciting (if slow) game of tactics to acquire resources and territory
much like many computer games I've happily wasted portions of my life
in front of. I don't think there any control centres like a brain,
but this might just mean its awareness is not centred in one place
like ours. Just wondering, do I feel like I live just behind my eyes
because my brain is there or because seeing is my primary sense. To
argue the later, I would say that in the dark when I have to rely
upon touch alone my awareness shifts to more to my fingertips (and my
shin when I inevitably walk into a stool). Hold up, Stop the presses,
Brainwave!…i hereby present the next big thing coming to a PC (or
mac if your one of those people) near you:
Plantlife!
The
soon to be multi award winning, next big XXXX game combining tactical
nuance and education
You are the acorn (and many other
seeds for different difficulty levels and perks) on the branch; you
fall off your mother and with a section needing good sleight of hand
skills you must find a good starting point.
You take root!
Seek the water, get the right combination of nutrients, battle the
birch for light, find larger supply water, grow leafs (or leaves?),
upgrade trunk size, upgrade roots (maybe with nitrogen fixing
nodules), ward off goats, avoid lightning, grow taller, wipe out
hawthorn saplings, prevent rot, exterminate termites…the list goes
on
But win and you control a grand self functioning
empire, sit back and enjoy. Produce new acorn and play again.
Play
with your friend and share your progress on facebook and twitter.
If
there are enough people like me
Who wonder about being a
tree
Then by the time I'm twenty three
I’ll be as rich as
rich can be
Who wonder about being a
tree
Then by the time I'm twenty three
I’ll be as rich as
rich can be
Day
fourteen (of my PhD weird eh)
A
long long time ago
i can still remember,
when the tubes
used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my way
I’d
be filling boxes all day
And I'm sure I’d be happy all the
while
But October made me shiver,
with every tube I
didn’t deliver,
weighed heavy on my conscience
why did I
turn to science
i can still remember,
when the tubes
used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my way
I’d
be filling boxes all day
And I'm sure I’d be happy all the
while
But October made me shiver,
with every tube I
didn’t deliver,
weighed heavy on my conscience
why did I
turn to science
I
can remember that I cried
When heard about my replacement:
Clive
But I lost something of my pride
The day my tube life
died
It's
been awhile since the glory days of my professional writing career
(being paid whilst I wrote is the same as being paid for what I wrote
right?) and lots has happened. But first, I must apologise for not
completing the last day. It was a very moving day saying goodbye to
those plastic angels and I was worried that the pure stream of raw
emotion that you would encountered had I put fingers to keyboard
would have probably brought the nation to it knees. Also I was at the
pub.
Where to begin, I suppose with frustration. After
leaving my beloved tubes I expected to start my PhD the following
week, or at least the week after. But days turned into weeks and
still the paperwork for me to start was not completed. I build up
enough rage at the Human Resources that I probably could have written
an epic poem (I've met them now and annoyingly they are very nice).
Three weeks past and my Skyrim character was basically invincible.
There was I displayed on my parents’ glorious HD tv -a brute of an
orc with daedric armour, a massive heavily enchanted great sword and
very questionable morals when tragedy stuck. Whilst I was pwning some
draugr deathlords, my playstation experienced what is known on the
internet as the ‘yellow light of death’. Game over. I never even
finished the main quest :(. I took solace in my juggling and nearly
had mastered 5 balls, when finally HR were coerced sufficiently that
they broke and let me start becoming a Doctor.
I have
moved into my new flat and my housemates are anything but axe
murderers. In fact much to my joy, my male flatmate likes sports as
much as I do, so, even if we had nothing else in common (which isn't
true) we could probably just talk about Liverpool FC's failings - of
which there are many. My flatmates of the sugar and spice variety are
also nice (although one of them has a nude self portrait in their
room (?)). To the disappointment of a certain friend they both have
boyfriends. He is said to look like Arthur from Inception (Joseph
Gordon-Levitt) so I shall call him Dreamy Levitt. Anyway he assumed
that me having female flatmates meant he had half a chance of getting
laid - keep dreaming mate.
As far as science goes I have
unfortunately not made it into the lab yet. I have spent the last 2.5
weeks reading loads of journal articles about thin film transistors,
high K dielectrics and deposition techniques but I shan't bore you
with the detail apart from its quite interesting. And silicon is
really a very good semiconductor which is damn hard to improve
upon.
On that bombshell I'm off to bed to dream of tubes
and silicon, bon nuit!
Postcursors
to Writings
This
sadly (or not) was the last entry of the Tubeology years (month). The
PhD took up slightly more time than the Tubeologist job and the
blogging dried up.
I
am now 27 years of age and a fully fledged doctor of
physics/chemistry/material science. Or fake doctor as my friends put
it. I learnt all about semiconductors, specifically zinc oxide, and
even published an academic paper on it. I'm no longer a scientist, or
even a tubeologist, but occasionally I still dream of tubes and
silicon.
Rob
(who refuses to explain this photograph and its context)
