27 Sept 2013
This one is for error messages you never want to see.
The personal news and opinion pages of Smoke 003723
Convenience
One of the few magazines I read these days is Cracked.com, mostly for the Photoplasty contests. And in order to enter those competitions you basically need to provide your own storage. Well, since I refuse to use Google Docs, I'll just post my entries here.
27 Sept 2013
This one is for error messages you never want to see.
27 Sept 2013
This one is for error messages you never want to see.
That terrible day
I wake but linger in bed. Do I really have to go to the 8am lecture at uni today?
Mum comes through the bedroom door, as she usually does when I'm reluctant to wake up. "Have you heard the news?"
"No."
"Terrorists have flown planes into the World Trade Centre and the Pentagon."
My first thought goes to The Lone Gunmen television series. It had premièred on TV mere weeks earlier, and the first episode involved a plane flying into one of the Twin Towers. My jaw begins to sink. Then my thoughts go to friends of our family who live in New York's outer suburbs.
Local time is 14 hours ahead of New York: while it's 6am on 12 Sept here, in New York it's 8pm on 11 Sept. I shower, dress and come to the breakfast table: Dad is already there, eating his toast as he looks at the front page. The picture is of a single smoking tower; the text talks of the simultaneous attack on the Pentagon. The paper speaks of the death and destruction: I can't read it as it's too painful.
The drive to university is accompanied by the sound of the news radio. The poor DJ is trying to find the words to describe the news to the listeners. He interviews an American expatriate: she want her government to find the perpetrators and "bomb the shit out of them". Her tone is full of hate and vengeance.
The Premier comes on: after the standard recitals and condolences, the DJ asks if this will affect the upcoming Commonwealth Heads Of Government Meeting that's scheduled to occur in his capital. Like a flummoxed telemarketer, the Premier repeats "democracy is like a flower: it needs the light of day to flourish" to any of the difficult questions. I turn the radio off.
My classmates assemble for that pesky 8am lecture: Introduction To Networks, part of the first-year Bachelor of Information Technology course. This morning's greeting is invariably "Have you heard the news?" So far the only images we've seen are of one scarred, smoking tower with its mate pristine; or pictures of the second plane striking the intact tower. Someone says the towers are still standing; another says one is standing but the other is a jagged stalagmite. The lecturer arrives and announces the start of class "on this sombre morning". We all know the show must go on.
Two hours later the lecture finishes. I have some time before my next lecture, and I know there's always a projector broadcasting CNN in a large public area in the business faculty. I walk there to hear more: a crowd has gathered, standing and watching the endless repeats of the planes striking the buildings. Slowly the facts emerge: simultaneous hijacks by kamikaze attackers; the horrid collapse of both towers with rescue workers still inside; the fourth plane scheduled for Congress or the White House.
As I watch the plane strike the second tower for the umpteenth time, I think how this is something that is only supposed to happen in dystopian films. Bush The Younger has announced military action against both terrorists and "those who harbour them". More than ever, I fear what his leadership will mean for the world.
I can't remember what happened at my other classes during that day. The standard greeting of "Have you heard the news?" is eventually answered with "Hard to miss it."
By the evening, every TV station broadcasting has suspended normal programming to play more repeats of the tragedy. The one station that didn't is playing bad sitcoms. The images seen during the day mean I can't read, can't play video games.... We type an e-mail to our family friends in New York, sending our best wishes and hopes. There is now nothing more to be done, other than try to survive.
Mum comes through the bedroom door, as she usually does when I'm reluctant to wake up. "Have you heard the news?"
"No."
"Terrorists have flown planes into the World Trade Centre and the Pentagon."
My first thought goes to The Lone Gunmen television series. It had premièred on TV mere weeks earlier, and the first episode involved a plane flying into one of the Twin Towers. My jaw begins to sink. Then my thoughts go to friends of our family who live in New York's outer suburbs.
Local time is 14 hours ahead of New York: while it's 6am on 12 Sept here, in New York it's 8pm on 11 Sept. I shower, dress and come to the breakfast table: Dad is already there, eating his toast as he looks at the front page. The picture is of a single smoking tower; the text talks of the simultaneous attack on the Pentagon. The paper speaks of the death and destruction: I can't read it as it's too painful.
The drive to university is accompanied by the sound of the news radio. The poor DJ is trying to find the words to describe the news to the listeners. He interviews an American expatriate: she want her government to find the perpetrators and "bomb the shit out of them". Her tone is full of hate and vengeance.
The Premier comes on: after the standard recitals and condolences, the DJ asks if this will affect the upcoming Commonwealth Heads Of Government Meeting that's scheduled to occur in his capital. Like a flummoxed telemarketer, the Premier repeats "democracy is like a flower: it needs the light of day to flourish" to any of the difficult questions. I turn the radio off.
My classmates assemble for that pesky 8am lecture: Introduction To Networks, part of the first-year Bachelor of Information Technology course. This morning's greeting is invariably "Have you heard the news?" So far the only images we've seen are of one scarred, smoking tower with its mate pristine; or pictures of the second plane striking the intact tower. Someone says the towers are still standing; another says one is standing but the other is a jagged stalagmite. The lecturer arrives and announces the start of class "on this sombre morning". We all know the show must go on.
Two hours later the lecture finishes. I have some time before my next lecture, and I know there's always a projector broadcasting CNN in a large public area in the business faculty. I walk there to hear more: a crowd has gathered, standing and watching the endless repeats of the planes striking the buildings. Slowly the facts emerge: simultaneous hijacks by kamikaze attackers; the horrid collapse of both towers with rescue workers still inside; the fourth plane scheduled for Congress or the White House.
As I watch the plane strike the second tower for the umpteenth time, I think how this is something that is only supposed to happen in dystopian films. Bush The Younger has announced military action against both terrorists and "those who harbour them". More than ever, I fear what his leadership will mean for the world.
I can't remember what happened at my other classes during that day. The standard greeting of "Have you heard the news?" is eventually answered with "Hard to miss it."
By the evening, every TV station broadcasting has suspended normal programming to play more repeats of the tragedy. The one station that didn't is playing bad sitcoms. The images seen during the day mean I can't read, can't play video games.... We type an e-mail to our family friends in New York, sending our best wishes and hopes. There is now nothing more to be done, other than try to survive.
Job Hunt
Like most uni students, I took a temp job in order to splurge on luxuries such as food and board. Data entry, filing, phone calls, keeping the copier fed with dead trees....I clung to the dream of how, upon earning my degree, I would be able to instantly get the first seven-figure job I applied for.
As soon as Stupid Hat Day was over, I added the beautiful words Bachelor of to my CV. For some reason no-one was advertising any seven-figure jobs, so I forwarded my new CV to The Recruitment Agency and waited.
This Agency was of good repute and I was happy throwing my hat into their ring. In less than a week a temp job came up: at The Recruitment Agency itself, doing data entry. This put me in the unusual position of working in the cubicle right next to The Recruiter responsible for finding my next job.
While working there I would listen to the various clients who would come in and do the quick interview. I would also overhear her tired recitals over the phone of "Didn't you check the address before you started?" as an endless number of recruits rang in and explained they couldn't find their new workplace.
"Great news!" The Recruiter announced one day, "You're the first choice as a temp at a Department of Government!"
Oh dear. I explain to Recruiter that my father works at a Department of Government, and I will not take any job that results in me ending up in the same building. Not to worry, apparently, this job is at Department B, whereas Dad works at Department A. All I have to do is arrive at This Address and I'll have the highest-paying job yet!
Well, I do need to earn money while I'm waiting for the real jobs to appear. Very well, I will report on Monday.
Because I'm pedantic, and because the office of The Department is only a short walk from where I am now, I do a quick recce of the address during my lunch hour. Sure enough, there's the logo of The Department B of Government. I note the entrance, the route to go in....all will be well.
Monday. I arrive at the reception desk of The Department and ask for my contact. "Sorry, no-one by that name at this office."
Uh-oh. "This is 123 Address Street?"
"Yep."
"And this is definitely Department B of Government?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid we don't have anyone by that name here."
I thank the receptionist and leave the building.
I consult my print-out of the job and pull out my mobile phone. I ring the client contact number: "You've reached the message bank of...." So much for reporting I'll be late.
My print-out of the job details still includes the number of The Recruitment Agency: I ring them and ask for The Recruiter. "You've sent me to the wrong address!"
"Didn't you drive past the address first?" She recites it like the robot who just told me about the message bank.
"Yes actually, I went past it the other day and confirmed it is indeed a Department of Government building. It's just the wrong Department of Government building!"
"Oh. Well that's the only address I have."
I know in this area several other Department of Government buildings are scattered along the streets. I walk to three: none of them house Department B.
I don't have a car and it's too early for a bus to take me home. I go to my mobile phone again and buzz Dad on speed-dial. I explain the situation and ask "Can you please give me all the offices for the B Department of Government in this area?" Being at a Department of Government himself, Dad is sitting in front of a computer that has the directory listing of all the Government Departments, from A to Z. Dad recites four addresses, which I scribble on the back of my print-out.
Address A is the dud address I've just tried. Address B isn't far away: I find the receptionist but again, no-one by that name is in that building. Address C is a but further on: still no-one by that name. To reach Address D, I have to go back via Address C, towards Address B and past Address A and continue walking.... But when I reach reception, I have found the correct address! All I have to do is walk the 20 metres to the lifts....
Before I go the Correct Floor's reception, I stop in the washroom to splash some water on my face. All told I have spent the last 90 minutes walking the length and breadth of the CBD.
And the temp job? I didn't last 2 weeks. They asked me to make the tea for a meeting, and I handed in my resignation the next day.
As soon as Stupid Hat Day was over, I added the beautiful words Bachelor of to my CV. For some reason no-one was advertising any seven-figure jobs, so I forwarded my new CV to The Recruitment Agency and waited.
This Agency was of good repute and I was happy throwing my hat into their ring. In less than a week a temp job came up: at The Recruitment Agency itself, doing data entry. This put me in the unusual position of working in the cubicle right next to The Recruiter responsible for finding my next job.
While working there I would listen to the various clients who would come in and do the quick interview. I would also overhear her tired recitals over the phone of "Didn't you check the address before you started?" as an endless number of recruits rang in and explained they couldn't find their new workplace.
"Great news!" The Recruiter announced one day, "You're the first choice as a temp at a Department of Government!"
Oh dear. I explain to Recruiter that my father works at a Department of Government, and I will not take any job that results in me ending up in the same building. Not to worry, apparently, this job is at Department B, whereas Dad works at Department A. All I have to do is arrive at This Address and I'll have the highest-paying job yet!
Well, I do need to earn money while I'm waiting for the real jobs to appear. Very well, I will report on Monday.
Because I'm pedantic, and because the office of The Department is only a short walk from where I am now, I do a quick recce of the address during my lunch hour. Sure enough, there's the logo of The Department B of Government. I note the entrance, the route to go in....all will be well.
Monday. I arrive at the reception desk of The Department and ask for my contact. "Sorry, no-one by that name at this office."
Uh-oh. "This is 123 Address Street?"
"Yep."
"And this is definitely Department B of Government?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid we don't have anyone by that name here."
I thank the receptionist and leave the building.
I consult my print-out of the job and pull out my mobile phone. I ring the client contact number: "You've reached the message bank of...." So much for reporting I'll be late.
My print-out of the job details still includes the number of The Recruitment Agency: I ring them and ask for The Recruiter. "You've sent me to the wrong address!"
"Didn't you drive past the address first?" She recites it like the robot who just told me about the message bank.
"Yes actually, I went past it the other day and confirmed it is indeed a Department of Government building. It's just the wrong Department of Government building!"
"Oh. Well that's the only address I have."
I know in this area several other Department of Government buildings are scattered along the streets. I walk to three: none of them house Department B.
I don't have a car and it's too early for a bus to take me home. I go to my mobile phone again and buzz Dad on speed-dial. I explain the situation and ask "Can you please give me all the offices for the B Department of Government in this area?" Being at a Department of Government himself, Dad is sitting in front of a computer that has the directory listing of all the Government Departments, from A to Z. Dad recites four addresses, which I scribble on the back of my print-out.
Address A is the dud address I've just tried. Address B isn't far away: I find the receptionist but again, no-one by that name is in that building. Address C is a but further on: still no-one by that name. To reach Address D, I have to go back via Address C, towards Address B and past Address A and continue walking.... But when I reach reception, I have found the correct address! All I have to do is walk the 20 metres to the lifts....
Before I go the Correct Floor's reception, I stop in the washroom to splash some water on my face. All told I have spent the last 90 minutes walking the length and breadth of the CBD.
And the temp job? I didn't last 2 weeks. They asked me to make the tea for a meeting, and I handed in my resignation the next day.
Boiled beef: It's new!
For those who came in late: one of my favourite restaurants decided to get new chefs. These hip and happening chefs have dumped the old-fashioned cooking paradigms and invested in an expensive new steam-cooker that can keep the food at the perfect temperature. Sadly, none of these new chefs (with titles such as Head Chef and Executive Chef) can actually cook.
One week later....
Flicking through the TV randomly I stumbled upon a show demonstrating the latest in cooking technology. Get your vaccuum-packed ingredients and put them into the newfangled machine, and you can steam-cook your food without even taking them out of the packet!
I instantly flashed back to my experience at The Restaurant. Morbid curiosity kept me watching the screen. Sure enough there it was: the exact meal that had been served to me on the worst day out I ever had. Potatoes pureed into baby food; beef steam-cooked rather than pan-fried.
I should probably issue this disclaimer: I'm not a foodie, I'm a computer programmer by trade. What irks me is that, with no more than a year of mandatory Home Economics in high school, I seem to know more about cooking good food than all the chefs at The Restaurant.
Anyway, back to the TV show and the Newfangled Steam Cooker (trademark). After you steam-cook your food, you're meant to get the blowtorch and take away the 'boiled beef' look. Sorry guys, but even if you add LSD to the stuff you can't take away one inescapable fact: steamed meat is indistinguishable from boiled meat, which is indistinguishable from raw meat. A good steak is never steamed: it must be pan-fried to seal in the flavours.
And while we're at it, here's how you cook a good steak & 3 vege. Firstly, pureed food has the same flavour as baby formula -- its target audience. Potatoes must be mashed, with a dash of butter and perhaps milk if you need some extra moisture. Vegies, unlike meat, can indeed be steamed. Broccoli and beans are best cooked whole, carrots chopped into discs. Peas are also an excellent green, especially with mash.
As an alternative to cooked veggies, one can instead have a side salad: whatever takes one's fancy. Lettuce is more a garnish so stick with celery and carrot sticks plus fruit & vege in season. If you have steak plus salad, you need to have chips -- good chips, like The Restaurant used to have, not the wet and soggy ones from the university refectory.
One week later....
Flicking through the TV randomly I stumbled upon a show demonstrating the latest in cooking technology. Get your vaccuum-packed ingredients and put them into the newfangled machine, and you can steam-cook your food without even taking them out of the packet!
I instantly flashed back to my experience at The Restaurant. Morbid curiosity kept me watching the screen. Sure enough there it was: the exact meal that had been served to me on the worst day out I ever had. Potatoes pureed into baby food; beef steam-cooked rather than pan-fried.
I should probably issue this disclaimer: I'm not a foodie, I'm a computer programmer by trade. What irks me is that, with no more than a year of mandatory Home Economics in high school, I seem to know more about cooking good food than all the chefs at The Restaurant.
Anyway, back to the TV show and the Newfangled Steam Cooker (trademark). After you steam-cook your food, you're meant to get the blowtorch and take away the 'boiled beef' look. Sorry guys, but even if you add LSD to the stuff you can't take away one inescapable fact: steamed meat is indistinguishable from boiled meat, which is indistinguishable from raw meat. A good steak is never steamed: it must be pan-fried to seal in the flavours.
And while we're at it, here's how you cook a good steak & 3 vege. Firstly, pureed food has the same flavour as baby formula -- its target audience. Potatoes must be mashed, with a dash of butter and perhaps milk if you need some extra moisture. Vegies, unlike meat, can indeed be steamed. Broccoli and beans are best cooked whole, carrots chopped into discs. Peas are also an excellent green, especially with mash.
As an alternative to cooked veggies, one can instead have a side salad: whatever takes one's fancy. Lettuce is more a garnish so stick with celery and carrot sticks plus fruit & vege in season. If you have steak plus salad, you need to have chips -- good chips, like The Restaurant used to have, not the wet and soggy ones from the university refectory.
The Worst Day of My Life
There's a TV show out there called The Worst Week of My Life. Well, on Sat 28 May 2011 I experienced the worst day of my life.
The plan was to take my Mum and enjoy a Puccini at the theatre. We go to this theatre about 3 times a year: it's clean, it's happy, it's convenient....in short, it's always a wonderful day out. There's also a nice restaurant there where it's informal dining -- that's informal, not casual. It's noticeably more posh than the cafés with the headwaiter seating you, handing out your lap napkin, etc. And the food, while slightly more expensive, is certainly worth it.
At least, that's the experience my family has enjoyed over the last 10 years or so. You can probably tell from the title of this post that last weekend's experience didn't go so well. It was so bad, I gave myself a blog account just so I could talk about it!
We're an organised family, so we tried to ring ahead at our favourite restaurant a week ahead and book a table. The first time we rang, there was no answer at all. The second time it was the answering machine, so instead of saying we wanted a booking and having them ring back at an awkward hour we decided to ring back. Finally on the morning of the excursion, we managed to book our table.
To reach the theatre and its neighbouring restaurant, we must drive for about an hour from the outer suburbs into the city. There's a single 2-lane main road that forms the main road from my home to the theatre. A single lane was closed, the result being a good 500 metres of stop-start traffic. And why was the road shut? So the contractors could lay tiles on the traffic island, where previously there had been some nice wild grass.
We arrive at the theatre carpark. Mum has a mobility impairment so we park in the disabled parks near the lifts that go up into the complex. Too late, we discover that the lifts and the neighbouring stairs are closed and the signs are asking us to use the 'pedestrian access'. Well, where's the pedestrian access? Myself and a dozen other patrons are wandering around aimlessly in an effort to discover that very answer.
Our first effort is to go past the nearby entrance and go to the other main entrance about 50 metres away. It is also closed and advises us to use the mythical pedestrian access. Finally we find a set of stairs that lead out of the carpark. Note stairs: no lifts are working, but fortunately no-one's in a wheelchair -- although I shudder to think what would happen if we did have a patron in a wheelchair.
We reach our restaurant. The ambiance and service is wonderful; the headwaiter advises of how the food's going to help guide our orders. Easy as. Drink orders are taken: they are no longer selling Coca-Cola. Now, I respect that people may prefer Pepsi but unfortunately I loathe the stuff. I settle with a lemonade and we order mains: I'll have a medium steak, Mum will have the barramundi.
As a complimentary appetiser, they bring out an eggcup of cauliflower soup with truffle oil. I'm not really a soup person, but I certainly want to be able to boast about eating something with truffles in it. I manage one spoonful: it tastes of cauliflower-flavoured garlic.
Now, this restaurant is owned by the same people who run the theatre. They know the patrons come in 60-90 minutes before the show starts, and so they get the meals done so people can eat, pay & leave in time to get to the theatre. At least, they used to: the new chef is an artist and nothing will rush him through his cooking of the meal. Not even patrons with a mobility impairment who are starting to look rather impatient. No, they must wait at least 50 minutes after ordering before their food will arrive! And they will like it!!
My 'steak' is two pieces of beef that together could cover my palm. They have the grey colour of beef that has been boiled -- apparently it's been steamed in Chef's state-of-the-art steam cooker. It has the texture of a steak, but the complete lack of any flavour whatsoever. Thesteak boiled beef is served atop what looks like mashed potatoes, but is in fact puréed. According to Chef's recipe book, puréed is "pulped into tasteless baby formula". As a garnish the beef includes pistachios (which actually look more like half-sized coffee beans) mixed in the steak juice (yes the steak juice was there, testifying it was once a steak). Pistachios that taste like the plain nuts you get for your McFlurrys at McDonalds.
And Mum? Her steamed fish is nice and hot with crispy skin, and an interior that tastes like cold fresh fish. The fish comes with pumpkinpurée baby formula and baby leeks -- although the baby leeks look & taste more like spring onions. The only redeeming feature between the 2 meals was something called an "oxtail sticker": a mini Cornish pasty containing edible twigs. Again, I'm describing what I received rather than what any recipe book may/not contain.
After paying the bill (twice what the portions were worth, based on size alone) comes a quick stop in the restaurant's facilities. One of the cubicle doors is out of alignment and won't shut properly, which extends our wait. The soap dispensers are infra-red activated: hold your hand in front of them and the foam comes out. Try the first hand drier: it's powered by a 747 engine. Try the second hand drier: wave your hands and an amount of paper towel comes out. Not necessarily bad, but quite hilarious.
The deserts at the restaurant looked tempting, but with time and the main meals on our mind we decided it was best to raid the vending machines for overpriced M&Ms. They not only cleansed the palate but provided our only nourishment. Finally it's time for the show.
The opera is Puccini's The Girl of the Golden West. If you like excruciatingly slow plots, sets that have more character than the characters and male leads who aren't even trying and therefore dragging the rest of the show down with them, then I strongly recommend it. The first act I caught myself lying down on Mum's shoulder: she didn't mind as she was already asleep, and apparently the lady next to Mum was snoring.
(Health warning: weak of stomach should skip this paragraph.)
Golden West is in 3 acts, and somehow we survive to first interval. We went to use the facilities: the theatre's facilities, not those we used after lunch. As soon as you pass the outer door you can smell it: the overpowering stench of....of....someone who didn't close the lid after 3 days' worth of steaming Number Twos. That's the only way I can describe it. I've done volunteer work at old folks' homes and I've never smelled anything like that before. Still reeling from the facilities we returned to our seats and tolerated Act 2 of Golden West. This time there was at least enough to keep us from nodding off. Second interval arrives and we again raid the chocolate supplies.
Mum: I guess we have to go back in.
Me: Or we could just go home.
Mum: Are you serious?
Me: [Nods quickly with a look of fear and desperation.]
Mum: Let's go.
The plan was to take my Mum and enjoy a Puccini at the theatre. We go to this theatre about 3 times a year: it's clean, it's happy, it's convenient....in short, it's always a wonderful day out. There's also a nice restaurant there where it's informal dining -- that's informal, not casual. It's noticeably more posh than the cafés with the headwaiter seating you, handing out your lap napkin, etc. And the food, while slightly more expensive, is certainly worth it.
At least, that's the experience my family has enjoyed over the last 10 years or so. You can probably tell from the title of this post that last weekend's experience didn't go so well. It was so bad, I gave myself a blog account just so I could talk about it!
We're an organised family, so we tried to ring ahead at our favourite restaurant a week ahead and book a table. The first time we rang, there was no answer at all. The second time it was the answering machine, so instead of saying we wanted a booking and having them ring back at an awkward hour we decided to ring back. Finally on the morning of the excursion, we managed to book our table.
To reach the theatre and its neighbouring restaurant, we must drive for about an hour from the outer suburbs into the city. There's a single 2-lane main road that forms the main road from my home to the theatre. A single lane was closed, the result being a good 500 metres of stop-start traffic. And why was the road shut? So the contractors could lay tiles on the traffic island, where previously there had been some nice wild grass.
We arrive at the theatre carpark. Mum has a mobility impairment so we park in the disabled parks near the lifts that go up into the complex. Too late, we discover that the lifts and the neighbouring stairs are closed and the signs are asking us to use the 'pedestrian access'. Well, where's the pedestrian access? Myself and a dozen other patrons are wandering around aimlessly in an effort to discover that very answer.
Our first effort is to go past the nearby entrance and go to the other main entrance about 50 metres away. It is also closed and advises us to use the mythical pedestrian access. Finally we find a set of stairs that lead out of the carpark. Note stairs: no lifts are working, but fortunately no-one's in a wheelchair -- although I shudder to think what would happen if we did have a patron in a wheelchair.
We reach our restaurant. The ambiance and service is wonderful; the headwaiter advises of how the food's going to help guide our orders. Easy as. Drink orders are taken: they are no longer selling Coca-Cola. Now, I respect that people may prefer Pepsi but unfortunately I loathe the stuff. I settle with a lemonade and we order mains: I'll have a medium steak, Mum will have the barramundi.
As a complimentary appetiser, they bring out an eggcup of cauliflower soup with truffle oil. I'm not really a soup person, but I certainly want to be able to boast about eating something with truffles in it. I manage one spoonful: it tastes of cauliflower-flavoured garlic.
Now, this restaurant is owned by the same people who run the theatre. They know the patrons come in 60-90 minutes before the show starts, and so they get the meals done so people can eat, pay & leave in time to get to the theatre. At least, they used to: the new chef is an artist and nothing will rush him through his cooking of the meal. Not even patrons with a mobility impairment who are starting to look rather impatient. No, they must wait at least 50 minutes after ordering before their food will arrive! And they will like it!!
My 'steak' is two pieces of beef that together could cover my palm. They have the grey colour of beef that has been boiled -- apparently it's been steamed in Chef's state-of-the-art steam cooker. It has the texture of a steak, but the complete lack of any flavour whatsoever. The
And Mum? Her steamed fish is nice and hot with crispy skin, and an interior that tastes like cold fresh fish. The fish comes with pumpkin
After paying the bill (twice what the portions were worth, based on size alone) comes a quick stop in the restaurant's facilities. One of the cubicle doors is out of alignment and won't shut properly, which extends our wait. The soap dispensers are infra-red activated: hold your hand in front of them and the foam comes out. Try the first hand drier: it's powered by a 747 engine. Try the second hand drier: wave your hands and an amount of paper towel comes out. Not necessarily bad, but quite hilarious.
The deserts at the restaurant looked tempting, but with time and the main meals on our mind we decided it was best to raid the vending machines for overpriced M&Ms. They not only cleansed the palate but provided our only nourishment. Finally it's time for the show.
The opera is Puccini's The Girl of the Golden West. If you like excruciatingly slow plots, sets that have more character than the characters and male leads who aren't even trying and therefore dragging the rest of the show down with them, then I strongly recommend it. The first act I caught myself lying down on Mum's shoulder: she didn't mind as she was already asleep, and apparently the lady next to Mum was snoring.
(Health warning: weak of stomach should skip this paragraph.)
Golden West is in 3 acts, and somehow we survive to first interval. We went to use the facilities: the theatre's facilities, not those we used after lunch. As soon as you pass the outer door you can smell it: the overpowering stench of....of....someone who didn't close the lid after 3 days' worth of steaming Number Twos. That's the only way I can describe it. I've done volunteer work at old folks' homes and I've never smelled anything like that before. Still reeling from the facilities we returned to our seats and tolerated Act 2 of Golden West. This time there was at least enough to keep us from nodding off. Second interval arrives and we again raid the chocolate supplies.
Mum: I guess we have to go back in.
Me: Or we could just go home.
Mum: Are you serious?
Me: [Nods quickly with a look of fear and desperation.]
Mum: Let's go.
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