Irwhining

Sometimes you have to take it onto yourself to make things interesting.

Nothing changes in Irvine. You get up at the same time, the harsh sun forces you to. You walk to the office, start the same work. See the same people. The 'Salaam' to the persian guy has become a daily routine. So much so, that even the sunset is the same each day, a resignation of the weather to the immutability of Irvine. If it were not for the weekend trips, time would run around in circles.

Enter Poirot and his little grey cells (courtesy youtube). The show is quite easy to get addicted to. An interesting plot, the suave Poirot, the French language and mannerisms (Belgian, he would insist), and some pretty girls every now and then. There goes the night. Sigh, every night. Starting right at 8, and ending at 9:30-ish. Even that has become a routine.

Except that Poirot, and the gymnastics of his little grey cells do make simple things sound interesting. So now if I can't find my socks, it becomes 'The case of the missing socks'. The next trampled snail brings to the mind the words 'Death on the pathway' (More on snails in Irvine some other day). A dead squirrel is 'Murder on the crossroads'. The work becomes 'The mystery of the unfixed bug', way cooler than 'heck my code doesn't compile'.

Not all routines are boring, though. Getting a paycheck, for instance, needs no Poirot.