First summer rains

jeudi, le 27 août 2009

As so often before, I am once again wrestling with a deadline.

Changes were recently made on my computer in order for me to sit in front of the fire place in the comfort of my own home and to remotely access servers at our offices. And also to receive annoying office related e-mails such as ‘The sandwich lady is downstairs’. I’ve been battling to access these servers the last two days.

I couldn’t give a hoot about the sandwich lady, nor who is on leave or in the loo, but I do need to access some statistical software on one of the remote servers to get a better grip on this deadline that is gaining strength. This morning I manage to log on to the server for long enough to run the data. I’m impressed at the vastly improved capacity of the new version of the software and I slowly gain the upper hand on the deadline monster.

But then I realise I cannot export the data once it’s been manipulated. I send off frantic e-mails and feverously make phone calls. Only to discover I need to install a patch on my computer for the software to execute the export and this patch is way too big to be mailed to me or for me to download remotely.

The deadline is gaining strength and building up steam, ready to whoosh past my ears. Sometimes I love the whooshing sound deadlines make as they go past. But this is really a non-negotiable deadline.

I manage to outsource the data exports. Waiting for the files to arrive in my inbox, I contemplate patches that I could install to export the unbearable pain in my heart.

My mobile phone rings and my Famous Friend makes lewd propositions about food and drink at our favourite local a few blocks away. I convince myself that light comic banter with a caring friend will be the perfect tiny patch to install to momentarily relieve my heart of some of its pain.

Chatting heartily over a pizza with the obligatory glass of red wine, the skies start to darken. A single crack of thunder releases the first drops of summer rain from the burdened clouds. We marvel at the relief to the parched earth and watch as the downpour washes the dust of a long, cold, dry winter away.

This winter of my discontent was undoubtedly the longest and coldest that I had yet experienced in the city I call home. Physically and emotionally.

Driving home I’m reminded that my car’s wiper blade snapped off a few weeks ago. Best I get that sorted out before the late afternoon thundershowers arrive in full swing.

My inbox is bulging with huge files and I settle down to catch the deadline before the sun’s morning rays touches my lawn.

And I hope for the rain to wash the pain from my heart.

(A rainy winter’s day in Paris December 2004.)

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