Somewhere in Ireland. January 2018
It wasn’t the initial disappearance of all internet connectivity in itself that wiped out the human race.
Granted, the sudden annihilation of money caused riots that led to the early demise of billions of individuals. The very small percentage of paper money that still existed rapidly lost all meaning.
The few survivors who were able to reinstate a barter system were in turn severely affected by the food shortages and pandemics.
But the human race was not at that stage completely extinguished.
What really hammered the nail in the coffin of this species on the brink of extinction was the gradual realisation that they would never be able, ever again, to stream funny videos of kittens falling in a fish tank or brawling Russian drivers caught on dashcam.
Mass suicides brought an end to lives that were no longer worth living.
It was just the dog walker and me at Seapoint this morning.
And a lone swimmer.
So just two sane persons, and a dog, to enjoy the beautiful, cold, still, crisp morning.
After walking Luca to school, I headed for the Mistake Factory via the sea front. And took my time.
I made a 40 minute journey last an hour an 10 minutes.
It was beautiful.
I’ll walk Luca to school more often.
Now that I can walk. Again.
Had clocked just under 9 km by the time I read my first appallingly irritating email, and typed a reply which required all the willpower I could muster to sound professional.
For the walk back home in the evening, it was heavy fog and magic shadows.
These two walks almost made the big slice of Mistake Factory in between bearable.
I forge ahead, on this rapidly diminishing walkway between sea and sky.
At the other end, the promised land, the Mistake Factory and its many delights.
I forge ahead, between sea and sky.
Wet and dizzy and excited.
I run to thee, sweet Mistake Factory.
I sometimes see her in the morning. The Dog Whisperer.
Who actually manages to get all four of them to walk together, at the same pace, with no excessive pulling, bickering, impetuous urine sprinkling or tangles in the leashes.
I have absolutely no idea how she does it.
She has been my boss for the last nine years. A great boss. Not a micro-manager, but an enabler. And always available to back you up, when some corporate muscle was needed.
The reason why the Mistake Factory was bearable is the fact that I have a great team, and that I reported directly to a great manager.
Except that on 6 December, “Madame” became my ex-manager.
The higher echelons of the Mistake Factory decided that she would be a perfect fit for Operation Transformation (from employed to unemployed).
Six months down the line, a couple of cells in a spreadsheet will look not quite right. Alarm bells will be rung. Stakeholders will be summoned. Corporate hot air tanks will be readied for yet another deep dive. Black belts and kimonos will fill a conference room for some serious kaizen extravaganza of gourmet sandwiches and insipid ideas, hot coffee and cold logic.
People will wonder why those couple of cells in the spreadsheet do not look quite right. Not quite right at all.
They will by then have forgotten that Evelyne is gone. That she is no longer doing the nurturing that makes happy cells in a spreadsheet.
Carlos meanwhile is contemplating his impending colonoscopy (9 days to go)