The Lair

So we have this new cordless phone in the house. The venerable and much abused unit packed it in. In retrospect, a cordless phone packing it in is unsurprising. No one in my residence is actually going to make it into a cricket team (or indeed, any sports team). Of course, in our mind; we think we’re sporting superstars.

This is probably why we launch the cordless phone on uncatchable trajectories and expect the recipient to grab it out of thin air. The gap between our expectation and reality is why the cordless usually bounces about twice on the floor before the intended recipient gets hold of it.

But I digress. New cordless phone. Dire warnings about not flinging it around etc

As the (apparent) resident technologist, it was my job to “figure out how it works and tell everyone else”. By and large, I can accomplish this task (only the early model VCR defeated me. I simply could not get that record-via-barcode-scanner business to work. I still smart at this failure). So I sit down with the instruction manual (not in Engrish this time around) and figure out how the cordless works. Among other things, the cordless allows one to set its name. You know, sort of like a screensaver.

Being in an inspired mood; I ingeniously settled on calling the phone “upstairs”. Because you know, upstairs phone. As opposed to the other unnamed phones which should be incarcerated downstairs.

Like I said, creative.

Later that day, I was accosted by an indignant parent. The phone, I was told, did not work. What did I do to it, etc.

I donned my best “who me? I did nozzin” face. I did nudding, guv. But do tell, what exactly is wrong with the phone?

“Well”, fumes the parent. “I came downstairs with the phone while I was taking a call and it still said ‘upstairs’. But I’m downstairs now. Why didn’t it say downstairs?”.

Oh. Err.

Any sufficiently advanced technology is going to be so inscrutable to ordinary mortals that they just should give up and not bother.

drac, 2008

To the outsider who hasn’t bothered to find out anything about the country, it seems that India is this scary place which only eats rabbit food. To some extent, this is true. There are lots of vegetarian restaurants. In fact, in the unlikely event that I wanted to become a rabbit food eater myself; there probably isn’t a better country to live in.

But the problem is, I’m anything but a vegetarian.

The first hotel we stayed in for the night featured (as most hotels do) a comp breakfast. On heading downstairs, we were treated to a delicious repast of South Indian breakfast food. All good right? Well, the problem is that it was all vegetarian.

Although the situation has improved a tad, this is why I find Hats of Meat unbelievably funny. If you can’t look past the horrendous website design and you think this is like a domestic accident gone horribly wrong; then I’m sorry. But all I fixate on is the mound of meat.

In other news, the bombings in this here parts have compelled the hotel authorities to drag out two metal detectors and install them in the front lobby. Guests and visitors alike (there are lots of visitors to this hotel, there is a wedding reception on almost every night it seems) need to walk through the metal detector.

No one seems very concerned about monitoring the detector, or indeed, about a random beep when a metal detector wand is passed through a vehicle - but I guess it’s the thought that counts.

So, why am I away from Colombo? Because the client that I’m meeting thought that Sri Lanka was too dangerous to visit. In retrospect, I don’t blame the client. Random bus bombings tend to make anyone nervous, hell they make me nervous.

Which makes the news of a serial killer in the vicinity of the hotel all the more ironic. In a moody, murder and mayhem sort of way. No doubt sensing an opportunity, the guests at the hotel have been issued a mini travel-advisory of sorts. Do not, the advisory says in officialese, trawl bars in the region. Instead, patronize the inhouse watering hole. Also, reads the subtext in large lettering, don’t stagger around the streets drunk. In addition to drunkenly stepping on something that smells noxious, getting hit by an errant driver or tripping and falling over pieces of the pavement, a pedestrian is liable to have his head smashed in by a psycho.

So, cable TV and lots of nice facilities (and a comp mini-bar!) notwithstanding, I think we were all a bit bored with life this week. There is only so much drinking that can be done after a hard day of arguing about the nitty gritties of requirements; so everyone was feeling some degree of cabin fever. Even if it is a very large and luxurious cabin with a working ethernet port and super slowmo internets.

This is why the development manager in the client’s establishment and I were in the bar talking about the time honoured tradition of asking hotel staff for female company. Not that we were particularly inclined, of course - but we were in the company of a young, impressionable developer type who had gotten himself a free business class upgrade. “Easy”, we insisted. “Just walk upto reception and ask for some female company for dinner. We’re sure they’ll oblige you”. Wide-eyed, this little munchkin swallowed the story.

Strategically waiting until after we had all eaten dinner (so his motivations could hardly be mistaken), our hero sauntered upto reception and made his request. Until the very last minute, I thought he knew it was a joke. I only realized my mistake when I saw an emphatic head shake from the hotel staff.

Apparently that sort of thing doesn’t happen around here. Who knew?