My work follows me home

I really despise my servitude when I get calls at home. It's made sweeter when the guy on the phone already has the answer to his problem.

For example, the call I just got (at eleven-bloody-forty-five) was from a delightful chap who couldn't remember his password. Could I please find it, he asked.

Gently I explain, in my best you're-not-pissing-me-off-but-it's-pretty-goddamned-close voice, that I was unable to retrieve that. Once you lose it you reset it. "Would it be okay", he asked, "if it was the same as his other password."

"Other password, Carl?"

"Yes," he explains, "the password I use on that other machine." 

"Carl, you only have one password."

"Oh."

Long staticky pause.

"Well, I know that one."

In the morning, I'll stumble in, half-alive, to sit at my desk and write down that entire episode, so that I've captured that on a

*drum roll, cue tractor-pull voice*

service request.

It will take me more time and effort to describe the problem than it took for me to sit there with a sleepy dumb expression on my face as my befuddled welding chief worked things out. Later I get to sit through a half-hour call to tell the three or four managers all about Carl's password.

Fun stuff.