Well, I got the requisite forms signed in triplicate and I am graciously allowed to have Notepad on my machine. My system administrator has been given a copy on floppy disk, and now there's only one problem: I don't have a disk drive. In fact I have a metal blanking plate bolted onto the tower where it should go, to prevent my sneaking in a disk drive from home and attempting to put disks in it. (It could also be to prevent people electrocuting themselves, but that would be sensible, so I doubt it.)
I rang our service provider, SEMA, asking for access to the A drive, and ideally an A drive to which to have access, and they logged my call and gave me a reference number. 24 hours later nobody had appeared bearing a disk drive so I checked my personalised Calls I Have Logged page on their website. It said:
09/12/02 15:36 Logged
09/12/02 15:37 Suspended
So, one minute after they started dealing with my request, they stopped. Did a sinister shadowy figure hint that bad things might happen to their wives and children if they persisted or something?
What, you may ask, have I been doing for the past two days, having no means of writing the HTML I am charging them £8 an hour to produce? Plenty. I have read pretty much the entire Metropolitan Police Intranet (access still not permitted to the big bad Internet, which incidentally includes the site I shall be working on), which contains many gems: the tale of police dog Major who carried on chasing a crook despite impaling his hind leg on a fence spike, collapsing only after his handler arrived and handcuffed the offender (which almost had me in tears at my desk) and Can You Identify This Corpse We Pulled Out Of The Thames?
I have, rather optimistically, made a spiffy PowerPoint presentation showing how the site will look if I ever manage to get it on the web. I have, even more optimistically, written three pages of documentation on how to create and publish Intranet files, despite not having managed to create or publish any myself yet.
I have watched an exceptionally fine sunset from my eleventh-floor window, drunk way too much coffee and memorised Virgin Radio's entire December playlist.
Isn't that what office jobs are all about?