Issue Twelve, this thirteenth day of June, 2003
There may be trouble ahead
There's an incredibly fine line between 'These bugs are growing slowly' and 'I think I've just poured £250 quid's worth of reagents down the sink and wasted four days of my life'. Thence it's but a short hop to the conclusion 'My protein is fucked'.
The moral of this story is that selenomethionine is Bad News and it's really not worth coming back into the lab late at night in the (vain) hope that stuff is working. Combine that with the Herrenvolk downstairs hogging the x-ray sets and I've Not Had A Productive Week. So I'm going to walk under some ladders, throw salt on the floor and see if I can find a black cat to drive over, see if that improves matters.
That said, the weather has been kind and Sauron has been terrorizing Susan Wente at a Gordon conference all week, so it's not all bad news. There was a scary moment early in the week when we received an email with the subject $BOSS can read his e-mail. Fortunately the link seems to have been too slow for him to bother with us - although he'll probably call two minutes after I POE(TS) at 4 this afternoon.
Mental emails
Talking of email, I'm going to have to make Mental Emails a regular feature. A bit like Reader's Wives but without the awful dècor. For example, we have someone asking for a 'summer au pair' to 'look after a 10 year old boy'. 'Look after'? Right. Maybe I should advertise for a 'suitable young person' to come and look after me. Mmmmmmm.
Our local Domestic Hitler surpassed herself this week - no, she's not dissappointed [sic] again, but A Stock Shop Bag containing some ladies underwear was found early this morning on a table in the ground floor corridor. I don't think I need any more detail, thankyouverymuch.
Following last week's radioctivity room fiasco, the 32P-CTP was freed, hurrah, and finally we are informed that filling in the access book is no longer required. This is a victory for someone, I'm sure. Who, is anyone's guess. Teacup, storm; storm, teacup.
Lab rats
I'm getting very worried about my very young apprentice. He's been pinning up pictures of the 'Friends' cast and that slapper Aniston. I thought he had better taste than that.
The Doctor has been regaling us with stories of damaged testicles and ruptured penises. I'm not sure we really want to know. Whose bloody idea was it to have him in the lab?
Studmuffin has been very quiet. I think the love oblong is a bit too much for him.
I had to write a reference for a letting agency for the Hippy. I'm still waiting for my beer.
I'm going to go home soon and enjoy the sunshine; that bloody medic is still missing, so he's going to miss out on setting up crystal screens (woohoo! Does the fun never stop?). The joy is tempered by the knowledge that the Dark Lord flies back tomorrow.
Let's face the music, and dance.
Richard (- humming a different tune).