So, Chicago. How does that sound?

In any case, this is a short, sweet update to let you know that I’m alive, and the rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. As such, I’m still liable to the Student Loans Company, and no, you can’t have my things yet.

Since November, I’ve been working… and working some more. I finally pulled off a very painful migration for the team to a new ODM on a Xeon XServe (the documentation for which is still being written… I know, I know…) and since the last bugs were worked out in early/mid January, I’ve actually found time to sleep and even leave work on time. Needless to say, this has left me a little bored at times, but my health and Cardiologist both thank me.

December saw hours and hours and hours spent at work, past my salaried time, bashing my head against the server cabinet in some vain hope that my blood, offered as sacrifice, would resolve the AFP issues that had seemingly plagued my new install, but not the older 10.4.x G5 install. In reality, the issue had been there all along, but under the G5, performance was already so appallingly bad, that no one had a chance to notice the odd kernel panic causing everything to restart. The AFP lockups were so frequent under the old administration (a setup that I inherited, essentially overnight) that everyone was used to it by the time my new Intel went in. It wasn’t until after taking a break at the end of the year, was I able to come back with a fresh mind and look at everything with the analytical bent I had so far been lacking… as an aside, I still twitch at the mention of “beachballing…”

January saw the marriage of my best friend to his charming fianceé, where I stood as Best Man, and did my upmost to ensure the smooth running of the day. This culminated in my throwing myself out of an SUV and puling his then brand new Mother in Law from the path of a speeding car. Being European, she had neglected to remember that cars in the UK move in the other direction. As such, she’d not seen thought to check to her left as she stepped out into oncoming traffic… Needless to say, he still has said Mother in Law, and I learned that I can move rather quickly when needs must. I supposed it’s an indication that I should return to doing some sort of sensible sport and get myself back into shape (or at least, one other than “round”.)

In very early Feb, my little City was (metaphorically) shot in the knees when almost ten inches of snow fell, mostly overnight, causing London’s transport network to simply shut down. I was personally house-bound for three days as the snow that melted formed two inches of ice over everything capable of aiding movement (rails, tarmac, etc) and so venturing outside was an adventure in just how far you could get before falling on your backside because you’d forgotten to strap crampons to your boots.

My birthday was a quiet event (all things told) though the cake I brought to work was a resounding success. The post-cake-drinks were also a welcome change from the usual routine of going to the local Slug and Lettuce to listen to co-workers moan about being underpaid and overworked (which is in this climate, a rather snotty thing to say, I feel…) – the setting of a vodka bar, while not my usual choice, certainly made for a charming evening.

Which brings me neatly to March. Right now, this month has been rather spiffy. We’ve been granted new training resources at work, and projects that we’ve been working on have finally come to fruition. There’s new functionality to build into systems, new apps to test (note: always submit bug feedback; hell, all feedback. Feedback is good…) and stuff to learn. Challenges keep me on my toes. Love ‘em.

Other than that, I saw a very excellent opera based on The Office, written by my friend Anne for Comic Relief. You should all visit the site and sponsor her. And, last but not least, at the end of March, I’ll be setting off once more to the US, to visit friends in Chicago, Madison, and the surrounding areas. I’ll be staying through the Easter weekend, and should be back in London around the 14th. Hopefully, the trip will give me a little time to catch up on my written output. And perhaps a new story from the man in 41C.

As part of my time away recently, I’ve been in West Sussex, and taking the odd walk. The other day, after helping an woman hunt for her lost dog in the 35 acres of woodland, I came back to the house and pulled off my boots, and noticed that my ankles were almost on fire. Removal of socks reviled a multitude of little bite marks from some unknown beastie.

Certainly, the broadcast could be better; it could be an HD transmission, and if still broadcast on the BBC, I’m sure it would be. It’d also be nice if we could see the race uninterrupted by the plethora of adverts that seem so pop up at the most inconvenient of times, such as right in the middle of pitting. But such is life.

At the end of it all, I still get to watch a race and take a chance to zone out just a little. These are the days I cherish, the days that I wish would last just that little touch longer, a sort of reversal of long dark teatime of the soul. Days like these, the cold, overcast ones, are the kind to share with people you love. And while it’s not always possible to spend it with those special people, when it happens, it’s worth it.

Long cold mornings, fresh coffee, pancakes, and those you care about around you. It’s the perfect start to the day. I hope to have that pleasure again soon.

He calls his calendar up on the screen of the computer and fiddles with the date range, and titles the event. “AA99 To Chicago” stands out as the first entry of the day. Get there for going on ten am local, and a five hour lay over at O’Hare. Not ideal, but it’s preferable to the otherwise mad sprint to the other end of the airport, And that’s not forgetting the joy of Immigration Control. 

41C checks his booking, and selects the seat for his flight out. The seat is free. And now, confirmed. Our hero adds the seating plan to his calendar and syncs. Flight booked. Tickets sorted. Passport found. 

Six weeks to go…

Mister 41C rounded the corner, and padded through the security at the other end. He stepped out into the bleak and cold afternoon of Heathrow, and looked about him. Nothing shone anymore. All he could see was cold, wet, miserable people, and a dark cloud looming overhead. He wondered how much of this weather would stay, and how much was just hanging about from the New Year. Great, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered; rain.

A half hour later, he was asleep in the passenger seat of a car, being carried back into London. He dreamed about the flight, about waking up late and having been sent back to the States, as if he’d bounced back the way he came, as he often did on the District Line in the summer on the way back from Sloane Square. His feigned panic for the people at Immigration, and then joy at the prospect of seeing his sweetie again. One merge onto the A308 later and he woke with a jolt. He looks out the window, peering over his glasses, and sees nothing but the grey sky, rain pouring from the clouds hung in it. He settles back into his seat, and frowns to himself. His friend in the driver’s seat asks him what’s up, but 41C just replies he’s tired. It’ll pass, he says.

“It’ll pass. “

The girl shifted in her seat and adjusted her blanket, buckling the belt over it as the captain had said to do before the flight hit the night somewhere over Newfoundland. The remnants of the lackluster in-flight meal, a small pack of grapes, sat half-eaten on the armrest beside her, but for one which had escaped the plastic confines of the cup and rolled off down the aisle to be trodden on by a heavy-set gentleman in his socks on the way to the lavatory. He sighed and shuffled along, glancing over the sleeping occupants of Economy. Somewhere in the middle of the cabin, a man with a now spent video game sprawled, all six-feet-six of him, across five seats. Everything from 38B to 38F, and half an aisle were taken up with his frame and bags, which bumped the front of the brown boot girl’s seat, which had caused the grape to roll into the path of the man in his socks from 24F.

His wife in 24G curled up as best she could in the seat, and pulled down her mask to drown out the blinking of the video game from the man in 38B-F. It wasn’t until an hour later that a steward pulled the batteries and shut the blasted thing up.

From 22A to 45A, all had been looking out their windows on take off. The pounding rain had delayed the flight by almost two hours, and as the rain turned to slush and snow, the show became all the more entrancing. Of course, as they’d fallen asleep, the windows had remained open.

Only the man in 36A had the sense to close it; a seasoned traveler, he’d sat down, pulled out his own pillow, earplugs and blanket, pulled down the window, and dozed off within a matter of minutes. He’d missed the entire show. He’d made the Chicago-London run enough times to know it by now; he didn’t care to watch.

Across and down from him, the man in 38B-F shifted, and woke groggily. He lumbered up, and sat down in 40C, reclining the chair as far as it would go, leaving his bags, and shoes, sprawled over 38B-F. Only the satisfying tinkle of metal and glass gave away the fact that he’d just sat on his own glasses that he’d stuffed into his back pocket before falling asleep across the seats. Of course, he wouldn’t notice until landing the crumbs of glass pouring from the tear in his jeans back pocket, into the shoes of the man in 41C.

The man in 41C tutted, and moved his shoes to the right of the crack in the seat, and turned onto his side, as best to avoid the crushing of the seat of the oaf in-front of him. He sighed heavily, and closed his notebook, stuffing the pencil into the spine of the binding, and putting the whole thing in his bag next to him on 42D.

He buckled his belt, and fished into an inside pocket of his bag, and pulled out a simple wooden bead Rosary. Wrapping the beads around his fingers, he pressed it all to his forehead, and said a silent prayer for the ones he’d left behind in Chicago, and wondered when he’d see them again.

The AA98 flight banked over the Eastern coast of Greenland and made for Reykjavik, though and down towards London. Daylight broke as the plane turned port-side facing the sun, and shafts of light burst through the cabin, illuminating the passengers in red and yellow tones.

The man with the Rosary tucked his legs up under his seat, and turned to face the sun and the windows. He shut his eyes and dreamed of his lover.

Air tore through the window and the papers on the passenger’s seat blew up and around the cabin, and Scott swatted at them ferociously, wishing he’d not been so careless when he searched the contents of the glove-box. All he’d found were receipts for gas, and the Smith & Wesson M60, devoid of all but two rounds; damned thing looked as if it had been dropped in an oil-pan during the truck’s last service, not that the truck was much better. It was only a few years old, but inexplicably full of rust; unheard of for something out here. The vinyl seats were cracked and torn from the sun, as was the dash. The remains of a newspaper sat, pages curling by the windshield. That idiot Nixon, blabbering about “that process of healing which is so desperately needed in America.”

US 8 joined the junction at one-eleven, and he headed south. The North exit of the junction was closed off, and blue lights flashed all around. With any luck, there’d be a few less people down at the wire. For some reason, Calexico was where they’d decided to meet. Maybe it was the lose women; that or the cheap drinks. At this stage, Scott was past caring. He caught sight oh himself in the rear-view as he looked back at the tape and cars on one-eleven Northbound. There was more blood than he’d thought at first, all caked above his left eye. It was a little swollen, but nothing too major. He’d take care of it later, when he met up with Harry. Hopefully he’d be here by now, waiting, Brownies’ on Main. A pot of coffee waiting, and a cigarette. But before that, there was one last thing to take care of. He needed gas.

Harry had been driving for sixteen hours. He’d not slept in a day and a half, and last ate sometime about that time, too. All that kept him going from San Angelo were cigarettes, a few lines, and the prospect of something better at the end. CA-98 Left was shut, and he almost went right through the road block before he realised what was going on. It was dark, and the DeVille wasn’t looking to have been the wisest choice to rip off. It seemed like a great idea at the time, and the drive wasn’t so bad with the top down during the evening part of the run. The cold air and bugs were keeping him awake, but only just. It was all that made up for the lumbering ride and heavy steering.

Soon, he’d be in Calexico, and Scott would turn up too. They’d torch one of the cars outside city limits, and then make for the border. They’d never have to deal with the shit again, it would all be behind them. Harry went up the ramp at the intersection of US 8 and one-eleven, and missed his turning southbound. He gunned the DeVille, and started around again, going up to the northbound loop. It was there that he finally succumbed to the gentle burble of the V8, and slumped forward. Four and a half thousand pounds of Detroit Steel rumble up the ramp, and tear through the retaining wall like tin-foil.

The blue flashing lights turned up not long after.

Scott killed the engine, and sat, thoughtless in the cab of the Ford. The parking lot was empty, and so was his gas tank. Henry should have been here an hour ago, and he was getting anxious. He’d just have to go it alone. He tidied up the papers on the passenger’s seat, and in the process, found a carton of hollow point Magnums under the seat. He popped out the two chambered .38 Specials and reloaded.

He tucked the revolver into the back of his jeans, and stepped out of the cab. In his back pocket, a small bundle of letters from his ex. It was always a boy’s club she’d said. For a moment, Scott wished he’d let her in a little further, and not driven her away. But that was over, now. She was history. Scott’s life was about to change for ever, and he couldn’t let himself think of her anymore. He tries to remember a time when he didn’t trust her, and fails. He should have brought here along.

Too late, now.

He walks up to the doors, and peers through the glass.

Never been here before, right? Never been here before.

It’s happened again. I’ve out-stayed myself. Itchy feet.

Time to move on.