Junior Assistant

This week one of Cicero’s distaff co-workers paid a surprise visit to the Cave which is where Cicero earns his bawbees. Surprising because said co-worker was supposed to be enjoying a well-earned rest for a year and all the privileges that go with it as she had decided to become a mater.

And because she was now a mater it goes without saying that Junior had to be brought into the Cave and passed around from hand to hand as if she had, unlike the Angles from this land, just won the World Cup. It was interesting to see her baby paraded and treated as a trophy.

Now Cicero does not expect child rearing woman to leave Junior at home while they pay flying visits to their Caves to catch up with erstwhile co-workers. He knows that there are laws against this kind of thing. But why do distaffs think that it is perfectly acceptable to bring Junior into the Cave? And why do other distaffs feel the need to ooooh and aaaaah and make baby noises just because they have.

A Cave is a place of work. It is not a maternity ward or a nursery or a crèche. It is a place of work. It is a place of creativity and imagination. It is place where money is made. It is not a place for Juniors who lack the ability to speak intelligible words, or to move their limbs in syncopated fashion, or even feed themselves. (Although on reflection in this Cave it is unusual to get many co-workers who can do all three either.)

And why do people think that anyone might even be interested in your offspring. Although given the numbers, all distaffs, who crowd around Junior, making all sorts of weird and strange noises, it is clear that many do. Ice maidens who have the power to reduce people to gibbering wrecks with an arch of an eyebrow melt away at the sight of a nappy clad mini human and go all emotional and hormonal. Why?

Madam, this is your baby. It is not mine. We understand you are a proud mummy but please keep this between yourself, the baby and its pater. It involves no one else so there is no need to inflict your happiness, pride and smug ‘see-what-I-have-produced’ look on others.

It is like looking at other people’s holiday photos. It is your holiday. Not ours. It means nothing to us. You have the memories. Not us. We do not want to know how much you saved compared to the people on the next sun bed; how absolutely divine the hotel and the food was; how you met this lovely couple who lived 17 streets away from your auntie.

And that how it is for Cicero and Juniors in the Cave.

Cicero really doesn’t get and understand women. Never did. Unlikely ever will.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Baby battleships

Has anyone seen the size of prams these days?

When Cicero was a wee lad growing up among the Pictish tribes to the north prams were small and compact which folded up into something not much bigger than a folding umbrella.

But having returned from a wee trip to Londinium, a place Cicero used to haunt but has now withdrawn from conurbations of any shape and size, Cicero observed that today prams have taken on the size of cruise liners with the turning circle of an oil laden supertanker. 

When did it become de rigeur to purchase one of these monstrosities? What happened to the type of pram Cicero used to have? 

With prams the size of jumbo jets and people toting trolley dolly briefcases the pavements of our towns and cities are fast becoming dangerous places for anyone without wheels of some sort. Pavement space is rapidly becoming a premium for pedestrians who choose to walk along on their own without some truck and trailer approach to their perambulations.

And then there are the buses. For reasons that escape Cicero vast sums of public money, in other words our money, have been poured into our bus network in a fit of taxpayer largesse to ensure that these leviathans for infants can get on and off with ease and to facilitate their ability to block the aisles of said omnibuses. 

Has anyone else noticed that the ease with which we make it for these beasts to get on and off the omnibuses is in indirect proportion to the size and manoeuvrability of sprogs’ perambulators?

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Early warning system

How stupid is this?  

The other day Cicero was sitting at his desk minding his own business but of course obsessing how to meet the needs of customers as marketing folk are wont to do. Surprisingly and suddenly his phone rang-not a mobile one but one invented by Alexander Graham Bell. In other words the kind that don’t come with you to the toilet, let you shop on the go, tell you then time, let you take photos and even make the tea.

It was a co-worker.

Naturally Cicero was expecting to discuss important marketing matters or at least a review of the body politic and the state of the world. All he got was some chit chat about respective states of well-being.

But after a bit the talk moved onto the coup de grace of the discussion and the real purpose of the call and it was…..wait for it…..and Cicero kids you not…..to be informed that he was to be sent an e-mail later in the day to arrange for said the co-workers to meet and to swap war stories..

Yes, you heard it right. The purpose of the call was to warn Cicero that an e-mail was to wend its electronic way to his in-box. How absurd is that? Very, in Cicero's book.

Do we do act like this with any other form of communication?

It is no wonder that our in boxes are full to bursting each and every day. It is no surprise that server capacity is close to saturation with pointless e-mails like the one Cicero was to receive, with cheap promotions for dysfunctional penile remedies and off colour jokes.

E-mails were supposed to make our lives easier but you can only wonder at the high level of inefficiency in built to our communication processes if we are constantly making phone calls to warn of the impending arrival of an e-mail. Do we really need an early warning system for our e-mails?

It defies even Cicero’s logic that it was not possible to conclude arrangements there and then while telephone communing instead of waiting for the e-mail missive to arrive which will no doubt generate a flurry of e-mails as arrangements are made and unmade.

It is reckoned that on average it takes 8 e-mails today to make an appointment between two consenting adults. Previously it took one phone call. And they call this progress

And all the while attention is diverted away from the one person that really matters-the customer.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Working at the car wash

Those of you who have been fortunate enough to get to know Cicero’s German-made chariot will be aware that it is usually wears a patina of what is commonly known as dirt and dust and must not be approached while wearing anything dressy, pristine or light in colour, and most certainly not when wearing white. 

In an effort to rectify this, Cicero took his chariot to the hard-working east Europeans who work like dervishes to keep the nation’s chariots clean and bright and in doing so help refute Monsieur Farage’s opinions that nothing good came from Europe.

It was interesting to watch these young men from the lands beyond the Danube and the Elbe go about their business. They were working in an extremely enclosed tight space, crowded with chariots, and darting from jet wash to waxing to chamois leather with no thought for their own safety. And do you know what-not one of them wore a High Viz jacket, the fashion wear accessory of choice for anyone in any kind of work environment these days. Or so it seems.

Cicero is sure that these welcome strangers to our shores have received nothing as seemingly essential as a safety briefing. And yet despite this no one seems close to have come to anything more injurious than getting wet.

Gentlemen from the eastern tribes, Cicero salutes you all. You are our role models. Though it cannot be long before the Health and Safety Gauleiters catch up with you and force you to conform.  

And to highlight the continuing absurdities of these people, you might like to pay heed to Cicero’s recent experience. And should you suffer from health and safety OCD read no further.

For in an effort to relieve the oppressive heat under which Dear Cicero and his fellow co-workers were recently being forced to toil to fund not only their own lifestyles but also those of the Apparatchik Army who live in taxpayer funded luxury, Cicero opened the fenestration in his workplace.

How very daring.

Quicker than it takes to say litigation, his competence in this highly skilled task was being questioned why health and safety was being breached and why no yellow-green vest was being worn when fenestration fiddling. His defence that he had been opening widows without incident since long before health and safety was invented when we had common sense, cut no ice with the Gauleiters who threatened to remove all privileges.

Ridiculous.

Health and safety was invented to improve the safety in dangerous industries like mining, construction, deep sea fishing and the like. It was not designed for bureaucrats and salariats. Or even car cleaning operatives.

In this instance common sense lost out, yet again. The world is going slowly mad. Our personal freedoms are being slowly eroded, our decision making dulled and our sense of personal responsibility strangled.

Time to learn from those tribesmen from the East. Time to live a wee bit dangerously.

Sit felix. Et sit fortunatus.

Fat chance

Words often fail Cicero. And here we go again.

Now ‘The Grauniad’ is not a paper Cicero frequently reads. Seemingly this is something to do with its left- wing, PC-driven, Apparatchik bias, which may or not be correct. 

But a few days back Cicero’s attention was drawn to a story there of such preposterousness that it not only astounded Dear Cicero but given the absence of comment from Ms Toynbee, its venerably biased and prejudiced commentator, must have dumbfounded ‘The Grauniad’ too.

Those of you personally acquainted with Cicero will be aware that he is not what you might call slight. Indeed in common with many in this fine nation he is what you might call verging on the fat, or to give it its new politically correct label, obese.

This does not significantly worry Cicero. It is self-inflicted. And he recognises that if he lacks the self control he needs not to reach out and gobble foodstuffs laden with sugar, fat and calories, that is his problem.

Sadly not everyone shares such an enlightened view.

For it now appears that a Danish Fat Arse has gone to the European Court of Justice to argue that being fat should be treated as a disability with all that that entails.

And no Cicero is not kidding. (For more details and to prove the veracity of this tale see link at bottom of these words of wit and wisdom).

It is not as if Fat Arse is blind. Uses a wheelchair. Or has some other mobility or sensory impairment. Seemingly he can’t tie his shoe laces due to his lard. Seriously. That’s it.

If the Court agrees, and there is no reason given its track record in thinking illogically and irrationally, people with an excess of avoirdupois will have the legal right to receive the same rights and benefits, often of course funded by hard pressed taxpayers, as those truly disabled by real life health conditions rather than by self-inflicted abuse.

Let us briefly consider the implications. And then you will see just how ludicrous this might be.

Employers will be required to make reasonable adjustments for their fatty employees. This might mean bigger chairs to hold and constrain widening girths. It might even mean reserving parking spaces close to the office to reduce waddling time, even though of course optimising waddling time might provide some much needed highly beneficial exercise.

And of course as disabled the fat will be entitled to blue badges so even more of these will be given out, entitling holders to abandon their chariots  for free wherever and whenever they choose. Does anyone else feel like these days they are the only ones not entitled to a Blue Badge?

It is also not beyond the bounds of possibility that employers might need to provide bigger plates for these people. This would be deemed a reasonable adjustment that they might continue to gorge and maintain their levels of fatness.

No doubt anyone out there who works in the field of disability access will advise on what more could and must be done to incorporate the needs of the fat lards in the workplace. Your comments welcome.

And of course we have not even discussed their ability to claim benefits previously denied to them and to others who take better care of their health and who eat sensibly but who will now will be required to fund this self-inflicted disability. ATOS is going to have a field day.

Cicero will bring news on this ludicrous quest for justice as it develops.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

http://www.theguardian.com/society/2014/jun/10/danish-childminder-discrimination-case-obesity-disability-eu-states

Full English

On an almost daily basis the lack of common sense, the absence of empowerment and the excellence in jobs-worthiness that many seem to possess and demonstrate daily, all conspire to bring Cicero to the depths of despair and hopelessness. Today’s tale made Cicero weep. And it should do you too.

From time to time Cicero has the custom of clogging up his arteries with a high cholesterol, totally high calorie and full diet breakfast with all the trimmings. Traditionally such fare is known in the Land of the Angles, for obvious reasons,  as a Full English. It is however interesting to note that in the land beyond the Wall of Hadrian it is known as a Full Scottish and in Hibernia it is known as a full Irish, albeit with minor variances in the foodstuffs.

But Cicero does not like eggs.

And so it is his habit to order said plate of cholesterol sans egg. You would have thought that this would be easy

.

No.

This morning on ordering his breakfast sans egg he was told that it could not be ordered without an egg. A Full English required eggs. And it was just not possible for eggs to be left off the plate.

‘It's ok’, huffed Cicero, 'I will pay full price but I don’t want eggs’.

Such a request was clearly above the pay grade of the minimum wage serving elf who scurried off to seek instructions from a slightly more highly paid serving elf, presumably her supervisor. Surely it is not beyond anyone’s wit to accede to such a simple request, no matter how much or little he or she is paid. Have we as a nation really sunk so low?

After much debate it was accepted that yes it would be possible for Cicero to receive his Full English without an egg but the egg must be served. And it was-it came on a separate plate and sat alone while the rest of the fare was gobbled and digested and was left untouched and orphaned when the table was abandoned.

Why is this? Why is it not possible to leave an egg off the plate?

Is this some nonsense rule brought in by the Health and Safety Gualeiters? Does it breach the Human Rights Act? Or has Europe decreed that just like a Mr Kipling Bakewell tart must be made in Bakewell, it is a breach of the Lisbon Treaty to omit the egg from a Full English? I wonder what Monsieur Farage might make of this should it be true.

Has anyone worked out how many hens are being put through physiological torture to lay unwanted eggs to satisfy some arcane and idiotic piece of legislative nonsense?

Or perhaps and more rationally we are creating a generation unable and unwilling to think for themselves and do what is right.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Time for a wee wee

You might not know this but Cicero has a soft spot for the tribes who hail from beyond the Wall of Hadrian, otherwise known as the Scots. These are a peaceful people of great ingenuity who have invented just about everything that is useful in today’s world. 

But did you know that this special race of super-heroes had mastered the rules and laws of time?

Now you might have thought that people like Einstein had proven that the laws of time were immutable and in these laws a minute consists of 60 seconds, an hour consists of 60 minutes, and so on and so forth.

Not to the Scots.

A day or so back Cicero had reason to use the telephony instrument (a Scots invention) to speak with someone from beyond the Wall of Hadrian. For reasons that cannot be remembered or are even germane to the story, Cicero was asked ‘if it was ok to hold on for a wee minute’ and was later advised ‘that this would take a wee second’.

And this is language and a terminology that is often used by those who reside there. Next time you are speaking with someone there and the conversation turns to horological issues, listen out for evidence that these people have the ability to manipulate time.

For what is a ‘wee second’? What is a ‘wee minute’? And are there still 60 wee seconds in a wee minute?

Surely a second is a second, a minute is a minute. As units of time they are constant, immutable and absolute. No one can manipulate time apart from Dr Who and Capt. James T Kirk. So how come a nation, and yes they are a nation, have developed the power to manipulate time? Why are they not telling anyone else? What else have they done that they are not telling us about?

And if anyone can explain how long is a wee second and how much shorter a wee minute is to the minute everyone else uses, could they please pass on.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Rummage sale

There is a lot about life that perplexes Cicero. This is one more example and he wonders if he might seek explanation and understanding from some of his many readers.

The issue is quite simple.

From time to time Cicero is forced to endure the torture of doing some shopping. Otherwise he would starve.

And so having wandered  the food emporium and gathered together his few items of sustenance he waits in line while  the assistant scans the mountains of food and supplies that many others seem to like to buy. Sometimes he can whizz through but mostly he queues behind 3, 4 or even 5 or more trolleys filled to over flowing with all kinds of foodstuffs that increasingly the nannies among us are condemning with the same enthusiasm that they have banned or taxed just about everything else that gives mankind pleasure.

And should one be stuck behind these trollies it can take quite a time to get through. Indeed there are many parallels with the queues one has to join when one returns to the land of our birth and our birth right as the Apparatchiks who man our borders make everyone queue to screen everyone regardless of passport to ensure no one of whom UKIP might disapprove sneaks through.

In this situation it can take 5 minutes for the contents of the trolley to be scanned. Plenty of time you might think for the trolley driving missus, for they are usually of the distaff persuasion, to get ready. But no. For it is only when every item has been scanned, bagged and the sum of the goods purchased totalled, and not a second before, that the driver of the trolley decides to rummage through her handbag and search for her purse and the means to pay. 

And searching through a handbag is no easy matter. It is not like the purse is ever at the top. It takes the survival and exploring skills of Bear Grylls to rummage through a woman’s handbag.

So this is what Cicero wants to know?

Why do woman not use the dead time when their goods are being whizzed through the technology to find the means to pay and have it ready in their hand, or at least have it somewhere locatable? There must be a simple explanation.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

A fishy tale

Sometimes you come across something that you couldn’t make up. This is one such time.

In deepest darkest Derbyshire they are currently spending vast sums of taxpayer largesse to widen the Via to reduce congestion. No doubt the driving population there can’t wait to get to where they are going without snarl ups and hold ups. 

No doubt too the roadworks are adding to aforesaid snarl ups and hold ups. And everyone will be pleased to see the back of the diggers, cones and men standing around leaning on spades that typify building works on the viae, no matter in what part of the country you live. It is the price we pay for a smooth travel experience by chariot.

However it now appears that this multi-million pound socially useful scheme has been held up because the navvies have found….wait for it….a colony of…….are you sitting down?......crayfish. Well admittedly White Clawed Crayfish as if that makes a difference.

And because of this all digging and standing-around-leaning-on-shovels work has ground to a halt while the eco-mentalists celebrate this find as if we had just opened Tutankhamun's tomb.

To the drivers of Derbyshire, Cicero feels your pain. To everyone else, you really could not make this sort of stuff up.

It surely is not beyond the wit of man, who after all can send rockets into outer space to arrange in short order the technology to lift and transfer said fish from the roadworks to some other stretch of H2O nearby. It is not as if Derbyshire is short of H20.

And nor is the technology all that complex. When Cicero was a lad he used regularly to transfer goldfish from the fair to home. And some were even still managing to swim around by the time home was reached.

Cicero estimates that this could be done in half an hour at the outside. The cost impact would be minimal.

But once again we are in thrall of the eco- and enviro-mentalists who no doubt believe that in their warped logic the destruction of this crayfish habitat will no doubt lead to more wonky weather and the demise of the polar bear.

Cicero often does wonder who and when these greenie sandal wearing bearded vegans (Bill Oddie is pictured in the article Cicero read on this narrowly averted ecological disaster which proves the point) were given the power and responsibility to hold up, delay and even postpone anything they like just because they think a tadpole is going to be crushed. Did you vote for these people? No. Neither did Cicero. So where does this power without accountability come from?

So bag up the fish and let’s get back to work and get the via finished. Can you imagine Thomas Telford or John Macadam or Isambard Kingdom Brunel stopping work because there was a little fishie in the way? Mercifully they didn’t.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Benefit of the doubt

Last week Cicero had to call to cancel a benefit on behalf of Senex Pater

Now you would think that in this day and age with the Two Caesars committed to reducing the amount of money provided by us, the taxpayer, for re-distribution to the supposedly less deserving, this would be an easy, straightforward and unquestioning thing to do. Far from it.

As always with these things Cicero had to speak to a script reading Apparatchik via the telephony device. And as always said Apparatchik was struck mute when the conversation deviated from the script.

Firstly it seems that the benefit was being cancelled a day early and supposedly could not be cancelled until and not before the change of circumstances happened ‘just in case something prevented it happening, sir.’

Does it matter? Does it really matter?

Seemingly this is vitally important to the Apparatchik minions who man these call centres who want to be 100% certain that we are all getting the taxpayer funded benefits we are entitled to. And to think that there are actually people out there who think this is a heartless government motivated by nothing except delivering painful and heartless benefit cuts. Even if this were the case the message clearly has not yet got through to the lower ranks who are clearly off script on this.

And then I had to prove that Pater’s circumstances had changed to the extent that he was no longer entitled to the benefit. It is right that people have to prove that they are entitled to taxpayer provided largesse but one would have thought that the Apparatchiks would be rubbing their hands in glee at saving a few bawbees. 

Why did they need proof?

Naturally Cicero questioned the efficacy of such a process. But seemingly these procedures have been personally put in place by one or either or even both of the Two Caesars. Yes, she genuinely and really did believe that our Two Caesars have enough time on their hands and even the inclination to develop such policies and practices. These days one of them might have time on his hands but the other most certainly does not.

Cicero did not have the heart to put her right.

Sis felix. Et sis fortunatus.

Soap Opera

Mei amici, it has been a while but now Cicero is back to slay all that is illogical, wasteful and pointless in today’s modern world. Thought you would be pleased.

A few days back Cicero was initiated into the magical wonderful retail experience that is ‘Lush’ which only sells one product, soap. You would think that a shop that only sells soap would have a limited shelf life. Apparently not. For it seems that there are Lush shops springing up everywhere offering a new experience in soap buying.

Do we really want an experience when buying soap?

And nor does Cicero want staff members to approach him unbidden and try to be all friendly, enthusiastic and passionate. It is soap, for god’s sake. How can you be passionate and emotional about soap? 

And should you be one of Lush's little helpers, the kind who rush to fawn and ingratiate with enthusiastic and camp bonhomie, please don’t invade Cicero’s personal space. Stand well back. If help is needed you will be summoned.

This is what some might call retail theatre.

But if we want theatre we go to an auditorium to watch actors and actresses (and en passant when did actresses start to call themselves actors?) perform the works of some great dramatist from centuries back. We do not go looking for a theatrical experience in a shop on the High St.

Retailing is quite simple.

You make sure your shelves are fully stocked with things people want to buy. Your staff speak when they are spoken to. And certainly no small talk or attempts to make social conversation. You take my money. You give me my change. And you put it in a bag for me, unless of course you are one of those retailers who have been got at by the Taliban-esque eco-mentalist bags-are-bad-brigade and want to tax me for the privilege of carrying the goods I have bought home in your advertising.

And that’s it.

You do not try to get to know me. You do not bid me ‘have a nice day’. And you most certainly do not treat me as if I’m your mate.

Keep the theatre for Broadway and the West End.

Mary Portas, you have a lot to answer for.