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.

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Death of the internet

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Au revoir, Madame


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)

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Rarely will a colonoscopy be more heralded, advertised, discussed, trumpeted, feared, debated or planned down to the most minute details.

Carlos still has 7 days to psyche himself up.

He asked me to keep this to myself. But I have overheard him discussing it at length with the receptionist. And B from Accounts. And S from Sales. And half of the mesmerised engineering department. And the cleaning lady from the 3rd floor. And his sister on Skype. And more importantly her GP husband on the phone.

I thought I’d discreetly add a reminder on our corporate wall calendar. The one used for the only thing that truly matters in the Mistake Factory: the holidays.



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Lampshade of sorrow



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Show us your tit

Sad spectacle, that of a cold, stiff tit early in the morning.

Couldn’t stop wondering if a granite headstone isn’t just a touch extravagant for a blue tit though.

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Belly up tit

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Chocolate ain’t good for you…

moused killed in a trap

Exit stage left, pet rodent…

As usual, I had mixed feelings this morning when I found out that our stowaway pet had seen an abrupt end to its cruise on the LÉ Mememe2U.

On the one hand, I cannot help but feel sorry for the little bugger. And there was much protesting from Mimi, who tried really really hard to make a case for the cute little rodent (“but Papa, it’s only trying to make a living, it’s only living off crumbs and little bits of food, it’s not bothering us at all”). And I totally see her point. It is a cute little creature, healthy, with a shiny coat, and shiny jet black eyes, and lovely little whiskers.

On the other hand, there is one word that does not have echoes of cuteness for me: infestation. And there is such a thing as an overdose of cuteness. When the cuteness reproduces at an alarming rate.

So farewell, cute little rodent. I know that the end was quick. Those mouse traps are terribly effective at achieving what they were designed to do. What a timeless, classic design too.

You had the choice between the cheese and the chocolate. Your sweet tooth was your Achilles’ heel.

You also helped me to reinforce a point to Mimi, the great defender of small cute rodents (she bought you at least three extra weeks of careless crumbs hoovering chez mememe2U): chocolate ain’t good for you.