... is a title which could (if said in a sarcastic tone) refer to how very much I enjoy the days when I am doing my level best to work at home, but I can't access the effing Secure Remote Access System. (See how they put "Access" in the title, so as to lull those of us who use it into a false sense of security? Bah!)
After a good forty minutes of keying in my user ID and a variety of passwords, and plugging something called a "token" into the USB port when prompted, and swearing at the computer, I capitulated and phoned the IT Service Centre. (See how they put "Service" in the title, so as to con us into anticipating that they might actually serve us? Bah!)
The young man I speak to - they are all young, in my experience: far be it from me to suggest that the work they do is guaranteed to burn them out before they pass 30 - tells me that this is a "general problem" which "was first reported yesterday afternoon". But, he adds, in an encouraging manner, it's a "priority 2 referral".
As you can imagine, this information makes me feel a lot better.
Or, rather, I suppose it might have done, if I had any idea what the significance of a priority 2 referral is. I think that means they're working on it. But might they not be working on it more vigorously if it was a priority 1 referral? And what criteria does a problem need to meet for it to be a priority 1 referral?
What the young man can't tell me, of course, is how quickly the problem will be resolved.
So here I sit, periodically moving to the other end of the table to swear at my work PC when it smugly flashes up its "access denied" message. Again.
At least I long ago ceased to feel guilty about the delays this technological incompetence causes to work which I have previously promised faithfully to expedite. Or to feel duty-bound to sit up half the night answering my emails once my access has been restored.
Of course, some games are genuine and can be a lot of fun. Well, for some of the participants, at least....
Bertie's favourite game in the world ever is bouncing Caspar. It never ceases to entertain him. Caspar considers this to be a rubbish game and is, I suspect, fondly waiting for the day when he grows up sufficiently not to feel the need to play it any more.
The best time of all to bounce Caspar, according to Bertie's dear little pea-brain, is when she is running up the back steps to come in out of the garden. This is why he lurks at the top of the stairs, assuming a far-from-convincing innocent expression. If he had the equipment with which to whistle in a nonchalant fashion, he definitely would.
Only Bertie is taken in by his own pretence. Caspar knows he is there. Her task - should she choose to accept it - is to do everything in her power to trick him into thinking she isn't going to attempt the steps yet and is, in fact,completely fascinated by a fallen leaf she has discovered at the bottom, before hurtling up them at the speed of sound so as to avoid being landed on heavily by one very solid young cat. As she is a lot faster on her paws than he is, this ploy does sometimes work.
Having chanced to be standing outside the back door with my mobile phone earlier today (don't ask...), I bring you photographic evidence of the early stages of The Game. Note Bertie's convincing impersonation of a plant pot.