A Half Empty Arm
I started the day at my doctor’s office. Not an auspicious start to His Excellency George Washington’s birthday; but there it is. At this point you are probably anticipating palpitations in the night and other sagas, but you would be wrong. The visit was entirely undramatic and entailed nothing more than a routine blood test. This simple clinical exercise holds no terrors for me, as I am very experienced. However, I think Dracula’s daughter carried out the last one, as I left the office with blood streaming down my arm. She must have missed her breakfast.
During my brief wait, I pondered the other event that shares the 22nd with Washington. On this day in 1972 the IRA (remember them?), detonated a bomb at a barracks at Aldershot in the South of England. It killed five women and an army priest. There was no suggestion of a suicide bombing. The Irish heroes were well away before the blood was spilt. Yesterday nine more innocent young Americans died in Iraq. We haven’t come very far in 35 years have we? I apologise for injecting a moment’s reality into what is otherwise a light hearted missive, but I served as an infantry officer in Northern Island and like keep the memory alive – lest we forget.
After I had been punctured and drained I nursed my half empty arm back home. Adobe has introduced some new software which I wanted to buy. The purchasing procedure was simple enough to start with, but when I reach the paying bit things got complicated. You cannot buy anything from Adobe unless you join their club. Apparently getting your email and home address is more important than getting your money. I went through the motions of completing their forms but failed to check a box. When I was in business my company mantra was “make it easy for customer to buy.’ Insisting that customers complete dumb forms, no matter how much it helps market research, is not making it easy. My failure to complete the form as required wiped out all the detailed information I had given them. It also flagged up a sign that an idiot was on the line because I was then confronted with an ‘Instant Messaging’ window with a suggestion of help from a formless being. I didn’t need ‘It’s’ help, I was able to complete the form again without assistance despite their inference to the contrary. I did however have a question, which I asked. ‘It’ came back with a wild generality for an answer. I responded with “That is not what I asked you”. ‘It’ then produced a link which answered my question perfectly. I offered my thanks and goodbyes and was about to sign off when ‘It’ enquired about my order. I was bemused by this as I didn’t need any input from ‘It’ to complete my order, but still ‘It’ wanted the order number. I complied, concluding that there may be an element of commission somewhere along the line. I thought that would put an end to it; but oh no. I was then asked to complete a survey. You gotta be kidding me. With a hint of guilt I clicked ‘It’s’ survey into cyberspace oblivion.
Next stop Borders. The day wouldn’t be the same without a brief stop at a book shop, and today it is Borders. I am a compulsive book buyer, and seem to enjoy ‘Personal Shopping Days’ at Borders most weeks. Today was no exception and clutching my purchases I waited in line at their Starbucks franchise. I was second in line. Before me was a very tall German. He had long, crinkly hair kept in place by a pigtail. His clothes were large, loose and rumpled. His green shorts were long and large, aka British Forces Western Desert 1942. He had a female partner that human kindness prevents me from describing. He ordered a complicated drink for both of them details of which I forget. What I do remember is his comic opera accent. What is it about the German language that makes their English sound like an English comedian pretending to be a German? Will the Germans ever be able to speak again beyond their borders without the rest of us thinking they are about to invade Poland?
