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Cake day: July 1st, 2023

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  • An old colleague of mine worked at a different office - he got fed up of the rat run and took a job within a stone’s throw of Stansted Airport - close enough that a hotel or carpark shuttle bus covered his route.

    He couldn’t be arsed with London and Essex house prices so he bought his house near Shannon (yes, in the Republic of Ireland) and commuted by plane every day. The major problem with that was if he didn’t book a flight when they were released (where it was about fifteen or twenty quid return!), or if there was a short notice job came in that changed his hours, he was royally fucked and it cost him a fortune.

    I should imagine his carbon footprint was somewhere between “Chinese concrete factory” and “literally burning petrol in the back garden for a laugh”.

    A friend of a friend did something similar in east London - couldn’t be holed with the London house prices so got a place in some Paris suburb and commuted by train most mornings, only staying over if there was a staff night out or a late working task planned.

    …and I sometimes complain about my ten mile commute.











  • I had a team leader ten years ago or more when I worked in a incident management room, where he would be the duty manager for the south of the UK.

    You could tell something was going to happen or a griefy job was coming in, because he’d nip out for a fag for fifteen minutes just seconds before the first phone call would come in.

    It was almost impressive, and once most of the policy or callout decisions had been made, he’d come back in with a cup of tea oblivious to the whole thing.

    Absolute legend of a bloke really, I was just jealous that I didn’t have that sixth sense.