Annoying Techies

I have to return my previous company's laptop to them, so I pick it up and wipe the dust. I need to retrieve my personal files before I send the machine back. But I am unable to log in either to the domain or on the local machine.

Since it has been a while since I used this machine, I reckon that I might have forgotten the password. Thus I write to the company techie requesting him to reset my account password. It is from his response that I learn that my network account has been deleted.

Further, he tells me, there is no local account.

Hmm...so is there a guest or temporary account that I could use to log in and retrieve my files?

There isn't, I am told. The only account on my machine is a localy cached domain account. No local accounts were created, and for a new domain account to be able to log on the machine requires a pre-established connection to the domain controller for authentication. Of course, for the machine to connect to the domain, one would have to first initiate a VPN tunnel to the network after first logging on to the machine. In other words, Catch 22.

He offers that once he receives the laptop back, he would be happy to scour the Desktop and My Documents of the machine and burn the personal files (if any) onto a disk and mail it to me.

Yeah, and what if I wouldn't be happy to let him have a looksy? These control-freak techies are among the rare group of people that manage to grind my gears.

Anyway, since no help is forthcoming from that channel, I know what has to be done. I burn the image of a Linux boot disc and Windows sam file editing utility (Click here to download the 3MB image - use this to burn the image to the CD. Do not copy/burn the file to the CD) onto a CD. Then I boot the machine from this CD and set the local machine's Administrator password to blank.

It's pretty straightforward after that: I restart the machine, booting it from the hard disk, and logging in as Administrator. Then I go through the hard disk, search around for my files, move all my files to a flash disk, and shut the machine down.

I will courier the machine back to Mr. Techie tomorrow.

Ironic

Just came across the song "Ironic" by Alanis Morissette (yes, I am a dinosaur). I have to say that I think the song is aptly titled.

And here's the irony: This song about ironies and titled "Ironic" has been written by a woman who has not the faintest idea of what irony means.

"An old man turned ninety-eight. He won the lottery and died the next day"
What's ironic about that? Well, it could be ironic if the guy died of chronic emphysema caused by inhaling all the rubber scratched off thousands of lottery tickets over decades.

"It's like rain on your wedding day"
Hmm....only ironic if you are marrying Surya bhagwan, the Sun God.

"Mr. Play-it-Safe was afraid to fly. He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye. He waited his whole damn life to take that flight. And as the plane crashed down..."
That could be ironic if he were flying to an aviophobics conference.

"It's meeting the man of my dreams, And then meeting his beautiful wife"
Really, Alanis, there is no irony in that. Well, okay, a little bit of irony if the wife is your "relationship advisor" you hired to improve your "luck", and one who had vowed never to marry at that.

"It's a traffic jam when you're already late"
That's not ironic - that's just an annoyance. Unless, of course, you are the town planner of your city and are late for receiving an award for reducing congestion on the city roads.

I could rant on and on, but you get the idea. Somebody please strengthen English language education in schools of native English speakers!

Click here to read the lyrics of the song

Staying Alive

Every night, almost without fail, I go out for a walk by the river, sometime between midnight and 3am.

Normally I walk down to the Albert Bridge, passing the Chelsea Bridge on the way. Occasionally I walk in the opposite direction, and walking the same distance takes me to Westminster. I prefer my regular route, though, as it is more peaceful.

The weekends are usually slightly different from the weekdays. For one, the decorative lights on the bridges become somewhat unpredictable. But more importantly, and amusingly, on weekends there is a good chance that I would run into a drunken lad who's been "walking in the wrong direction for 2 hours". Of course, I am usually the only person they see at the ungodly hour, and of course they have to ask me for directions and then walk with me till the Vauxhall Bridge (from where I turn left) to feel a little safer.

Yesterday, however, was one peculiar experience, though not a weekend. On my way back from the Albert Bridge, I stopped and sat down on a column of the embankment. I sat there engrossed deep in thought, or completely devoid of all thought, I can't be sure, for who knows how long before these three people approached me.

"Theek ho? (Are you okay?)", asked this Punjabi bloke.

"Haan (Yes)", I woke up from my stupor.

"You are thinking to die in the water?"

"What? This is the most absurd thing I've heard in a long time," I thought, but presently said only, "No, no."

Even as I was finishing my really short sentence, the Englishman asked, "Waitin' four yo gérlfrnd? Had a faaeet with yo gérlfrnd?"

"Oh, you arre such a good looking laad, you know thaaa?" chimed in the Welsh girl, "Here, take my hand, come down."

I followed that instruction since, almost on cue, it suddenly started to rain, and I had no intention of getting soaked in the chilly weather. I politely explained to my well-wishers that I just liked sitting there and relaxing.

While at the time I found the whole episode absurdly hilarious, as I walked home, it set me thinking, and I started to appreciate what the trio did.

I still don't know whether it was my "deep in thought" expression or my blank expression, or simply my sitting on the embankment that drew them to ask me those questions, but the point is that anyone of us could run into a situation where we might think that a stranger might be about to commit suicide or otherwise harm themselves, or otherwise are upset.

There are two types of errors one could make in such a situation: Error I - One does nothing (the typical Londoner's response) and the assessment turns out to be right, or Error II - One intervenes and the assessment turns out as being wrong.

The cost of Error II is invading someone's privacy for no apparent rhyme or reason, and risking being ridiculed. The cost of Error I could be as high as someone dying. While on the surface, the cost of Error II is personally slighter, I can not even begin to imagine how one could live on, dragging the weight of, "If I had just talked to that person for a bit, he might still be alive."

When one considers that London's multi-cultural society is comprised, to a large extent, of immigrants (international AND national), many of whom are away from friends & family and may not have well-developed social networks or safety nets, it becomes easier to understand how powerful a small idle chat, a kind word or a small act of kindness or thoughtfulness could be.

So the next time I suspect someone might be contemplating suicide, I WILL intervene, at the risk of personal ridicule. Of course, I'll try to be slightly more tactful than my three "rescuers".