ways of encouraging work enthusiasm

Sometimes things just get weird.

I was talking with a coworker about the lack of currently interesting new series on television (and the prospect of new Doctor Who), and the topic of the new tv series Bedlam came up. (It's something to do with an abandoned/rebuilt asylum: it has been difficult to avoid seeing brief trailers for it over the last couple of weeks.)

"It was obviously (word unclear to me at the time but sounded vaguely like thyroid)," my coworker said.

"What?" I said. (I would like to claim that I said, "I beg your pardon?" but I'm not sure that I did.)

After more confusion on my part, he explained that he'd been talking about High Royds Hospital, a former psychiatric hospital vaguely local to Leeds. While the first episode of the series hadn't actually said anything, there had been enough visual/location clues to apparently make it fairly obvious that they'd used the place for inspiration. Including the parts where it was closed down and parts were rebuilt as apartment blocks.

A couple of other coworkers joined in the conversation, after apologising for earwigging, and one mentioned that she'd actually had a boyfriend who worked there (30 years ago).

It was generally agreed that whether or not one believed in ghosts, a location like that was certainly a plausible place to find them. Positively made for J-horror. The coworker who'd started the conversation mentioned that there had been several instances of black water in the first episode.

. . . after this conversation, I was positively enthusiastic to get back to cross-checking lists of operations and operation codes against each other in what was one of the most boring bits of work I've done so far this year. It's always good to have motivation.

On another note, several of us at work think we're eating too many crisps. We may give them up for Lent. Time will tell.

(And no, I don't plan to watch the Bedlam tv series.)

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this is the garden: colours come and go

this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

-- e.e. cummings