...for the first time, and (apart from reminding me to buy a Pet Shop Boys album, just for those damn catchy tunes), I couldn't help but be struck by how much Rhydian looks like Arnold Rimmer. Maybe it was just the ridiculous uniform they made the poor boy wear.

In conversation, (especially eavesdropping on other peoples'), I often feel glad I was born a boy. It's a lot less hassle and, as someone who should probably remain nameless said, "never trust anything that bleeds for three days and doesn't die".

Now I love women, they're fascinating, noble creatures. But I'm sure glad I'm not one. Quite apart from all the biological fuss, there's the bewildering array of clothes they can wear (much easier if you're a guy), the still-shocking chauvinism they encounter in so many walks of life, and the endless barrage of cultural messages about the unworthiness of their appearance which they seem to have to endure.

So, a list: I (am/am not) glad I'm a (boy/girl) (because/despite of):

There's something not quite right about this. I can seewhat they were trying to do, but to me, it just says "Happy Cows during a Bank Raid"

Wanted: one CAD monkey. Must have infinite patience with dead-slug-in-a-straw slow computer links, and own supply of bananas. Ability to keep self amused during slow periods crucial. Ability to not mind too much when people at head office ignore your life's work and produce something dumb instead without so much as bothering to inform you, also helpful. Must be able to go for days without speaking to another living soul.

Benefits:

1. nobody really caring that you're using company resources and personnel to make light switch surrounds for your flat.
2. The ability to go bang things with hammers when stuff gets too frustrating.
3. Many many toys (lathes, chemi-etching, rapid prototyping machines, etc.) which can be pressed into service for various, er, personal projects. (see 1)
   

If you had to write an advert for your own job, what would it look like?

So I've been talking to the little people who live in my monitor stand, and they claim that their crusade against the ring binder reinforcement rings is over. I must say I think they're right - I certainly haven't seen any at my desk in a long time. I must admit to feeling deeply uncomfortable about this sort of Stationery Cleansing, though.
Now, claim the little people, the whole world is theirs, and they are pledged to be good stewards of it and look after it. I think they're a little bit worried about the environment, although I've promised to tidy up all the paper.

Right now, I'm trying to encourage them to expand. I've explained to them about Other Desks, but their reaction was extremely sceptical. "How do we know other desks exist?" one of their mini-scientists demanded, waving a shaving of pencil lead at me. "And if they do exist, how do we know they will have breathable atmospheres?" I did point out that if you go right out to the extreme limit of The Desk, it is possible to catch sight of other Desks, but their eyesight isn't very good, and their telescopes are laughable. They also demanded to know how they were supposed to get there - I explained about rubber bands, and elicited only a shocked silence.
"How fast?"
"Um. Thirty miles an hour?"
"And how big is a mile?"
I had to look it up. "It's about 170,000 centimetres." Too late I remembered about their weird units. "Wait! A mile is... 224,000 U's. Ish."
They laughed like hyenas at this one. At the moment, they're convinced that they'll die if they travel more than about 30 U's an hour. One of them managed to clamber to his feet to ask, "And how does the man with the red flag stay in front?" Then they all collapsed back into laughter.
I waited patiently, but to no avail. They'd clearly had enough of my nonsense. Still giggling and wiping their eyes, the little delegation crawled back into the monitor stand.