Cow-orker: "It can't possibly work, and I'm already doing it anyway."

I was sent a link to some information about the Noguchi filing system, which I thought looked like something we could use at work as an alternative to chaos and exploding files. I pass it on to the Cow-orker and her workmate, the token human.

"I'm already doing exactly this with my manila folder collection on my desk," she responds. To which she could have added "Except they're in no discernible order and I don't tell anyone that they're there."

(Her manila folder collection is a fearsome sight - two magazine holders stuffed full of folders containing randomly assorted collections of paperwork, some of it dating back two or three years. Only she knows what she has in there, or why).

Then she realises that the Noguchi system means that there needs to be some kind of consistency, discipline and cooperation with others underpinning the whole thing (which, obviously, is what makes it a system rather than simply a random collection of manila folders kept on someone's desk because it's more convenient than putting them away) and clearly that can't be tolerated.

"It won't work for us," she says, and begins grasping at straws as to why the existing "system" can't be tampered with. None of the arguments are particularly convincing, and most don't seem to be based on anything that Noguchi actually proposes.

And then she concludes with what she considers the knockout blow: "If we all got hit by a bus and someone new had to take over, how would they find anything?"

"The same way they'd find anything in your manila folders, I expect. Except, you know, this system would be documented so that people would know how it worked."

She flounders for a moment, and then decides to pre-emptively blame the Token Human for the inevitable failure of the Noguchi system if it was ever introduced here. "He'd never be able to stick to it," says Miss Keep-stuffing-the-files-until-they-explode who, ten years on, is still struggling with the concept that filing stuff electronically doesn't begin and end with dumping randomly-named files into a single directory.

Cow-orker: Outsourcing

"Someone sent me this e-mail. Can you read it for me?"

Cow-orker: Told you so

The Cow-orker rang me last week to tell me that she was about to repeat a task I did a year ago (organising approval for a demo CD containing free and evaluation versions of software), and to see what advice I could give her about how to proceed.

What she obviously wanted me to tell her was that she didn't have to do anything and could just give blanket approval for everything. What I told her was that she'd need to check to make sure none of the conditions had changed.

"Okay, so for this one I just need to ring the people we buy it from locally?"

"No, you'll have to contact the overseas publishers of that software and see what their distribution terms are."

"But I don't want to do that. The deadline is really tight, and I'd rather talk to someone I like who works for a third party that isn't allowed to make that kind of decision. I know I asked for your advice, but because I don't like what I'm hearing, I'll ignore it and do my own thing."

(It's funny - any other time you have to beat her with a stick to stop her talking to strangers, but as soon as she has to actually find out some information from them (and especially if it involves putting something in writing) she'll move heaven and earth to avoid having to do so. But I'm only passing through - so I keep telling myself - and it's no skin off my nose if she wants to bugger around).

"Suit yourself," I tell her.

That was a week ago, and a reply just came through from someone she likes who works for a third party that isn't allowed to make that kind of decision. They tell her almost exactly that, and then suggest she does what I told her a week ago.

That distant huffing sound you hear is the Cow-orker hyper-ventilating because this means she's just lost a week from the very tight deadline.

Cow-orker: Careless Talk II

Talking to the Crazy Man. I mention that we might soon be accessing our primary database through a different system (one that has an unenviable reputation for being a little less than reliable). He seems surprised. The Cow-orker was e-mailing me back at Death Spiral to complain about it, so I figured he must have heard about it. Apparently not.

I fill him in. According to the Cow-orker, our database has to be migrated to another system and we're to be given no choice about it because two other section heads have said so. Quite what these two have to do with it isn't actually clear, though, and the Crazy Man wonders how they got involved. The poor man. He really doesn't seem to know.

"The Cow-orker told them we were doing some development work on the database."

"Why would she do that? It's got nothing to do with them!"

I shrug helplessly.

He clutches his head in the traditional gesture of pain*. "God, I'm going to have to talk to her about this, aren't I?"

*(Clutching of the head is a gesture my former manager used to perform a lot when trying to understand the Cow-orker's motives. The Crazy Man has developed the same tendency independently after managing the Cow-orker for the last six months. At first I thought it was some kind of ritual gesture used by managers to ward off evil spirits, but it's hard to see how a ritual could survive in the face of such obvious and consistent failure. Now I figure it's just a reflex action, because curling into a fetal position is too socially awkward).

Cow-orker: Careless Talk I

The Cow-orker's been asking me if I'd consider applying for the position of token human if her current colleague gets a job elsewhere. She's had trouble accepting that I might not leap at the opportunity, and I've been trying to explain that I'd have to think long and hard (and be a lot closer to poverty than I currently am) before I'd come back to deal with exactly the same stuff I've already walked away from once this year. She struggles with the concept.

I could have simplified things by telling her that I couldn't face dealing with her on a daily (hourly!) basis again, but I need to work with her intermittently over the next few weeks and there's no point making things harder for myself.

Besides, she'd probably think I was joking.

Jump to this morning. The phone rings. For a change it's not the Cow-orker. Instead it's my ex-manager. We chat briefly, and then:

"What have you been telling the Cow-orker, by the way?"

"As little as possible, really. Why?"

"Because she's been telling people you're not interested in working anywhere in this division ever again."

Communication Problems

Life under the Crazy Man:

"This person wants a copy of these documents. If I mail them through to you, can you mail them through to her?"

I'm sure I can, but what's the point? It's not like he's actually saving himself any work here. In fact, given that he's been incapable of getting my e-mail address right for the last three days* and has to resend the documents twice, he's actually making extra work for himself.

* Discussion of e-mail addresses went something like this:

"Use this address. That one doesn't work."

"But it should, so I'll use it."

"It should, but it doesn't. Use this one instead."

"I'll use the one that should work."

[pause]

"Have you got it yet?"

"No. Did you send it to the address that works?"

"I sent it to the address that should work. Oh, wait, I've just gotten an 'undeliverable' message from the mail server."

"That would be because that address doesn't work."

"But it should..."

Repeat ad infinitum.

So now his mail software has the wrong address tucked away in its auto-complete list, and he keeps choosing it instead of the correct address, and wondering why a) I don't get his e-mails, and b) why he keeps getting 'undeliverable' messages.

Cow-orker: Green Thumb ... of Death!

The Cow-orker's pot plant looks even worse. Half of the remains had to be cut away because it had been nuked so thoroughly that some parts that hadn't been charred were starting to rot, some of the green stems fell off when my old manager touched them to see whether they felt as much like perished rubber as they looked, and the final two leaves are hanging at a thirty degree angle with the only parts that aren't slowly curling up being the bits that were turned into pure carbon by the Cow-orker's chemical warfare attack.

She remains optimistic, however, that the half-dozen green stems ending in cauterised stumps will shoot forth new leaves. Any day now...

Once more unto the breach

And after only a few days away, I've been asked back to my old work yet again - this time for up to several weeks. This time around things may not be quite as much fun: the Cow-orker won't be away on holiday, I'll be working directly under the Crazy Man, and I'll be working in the basement of the building, referred to by all and sundry as The Dungeon due to the concrete walls (painted, at least), near-total lack of natural light, and sepulchral atmosphere.

The things I do to earn a living...