MAIN » ARTICLESThe Iain (Rawson) Experience, part 8
Extract from ‘The Diary of Dr. Rog’: Week 602, Day 4210
Nights have become harder. Not for the first time in my employment here it’s been nearly a week since I last saw anybody else, and inane tasks are beginning to build up. A box of fountain pens appeared in the D-Deck Lounge two nights ago, in the cupboard just above the sink. I tried to write Dr. Randy a note telling him that the pens were meant for B-Deck 2 floors up but there were no cartridges, and my hand appeared to be wrapped in crude bandages sporting the Institute’s Water Polo Society logo. More strange than the pens or the fact that I couldn’t explain the bandages was that the logo was actually 2 years out of date.
Ever since last months’ Monthly General Meeting (MGM) in the Meeting Floor 4 Studios where Technician Hardcastle had passed the legislation that all society logos must be updated at least once in a “blue moon” all members of the staff have had to be extra vigilant. It was this discrepancy that disturbed me the most – even Dr. Jameson who apparently was last seen in the building over a year ago now has managed to maintain his societies’ graphics, both the Internal Alliance of Effeminate Flower-Growers and the Followers of Retired Angling Professionals.
My suspicions of foul-play were increased further when I took a brisk stroll around the corridors of the institute’s Regatta and Relaxation Zone on the 68th and currently unnamed floor. What would normally have been a quiet, yet bustling environment filled with hologramatic representations of small boys on sailing boats racing around the indoor swimming pool was completely empty. The notice boards, for the first time, were also blank; not one regatta was planned for the next 3 months, which was incredibly rare since Dr. Jay had christened the first, second and fourth Mondays of every month ‘Regatta Mondays’. We would all put on our best suits and sit in the spectator’s area on one side of the pool whilst an AI simulation of the best 19th-Century races ran in front of us. Technician Hardcastle who programmed the whole thing had once proclaimed it ‘the greatest invention since the bread bin’, but none of us had any idea what he meant.
It also came to my attention whilst on the floor that the volume of Snickers and Mars bar consumption had fallen dramatically in the last two weeks. Levels had been running around 40-50 crates a fortnight for the last year or so and now the storage closet in Relaxation Chamber A showed that in the past week only 5 crates had been signed out – all by someone using the pseudonym ‘Dark Lover’’.
I was perplexed to say the least, had it been something along the lines of ‘Heartthrob from Harunga’ or ‘Mr. Big’ then everything would make sense, but this was something I had never seen before. I quickly faxed a cease order to stop any more crates piling up and spilling into the corridors, and then grabbed a lab coat off the wall and waited for the elevator to arrive.
Rachmaninov was playing in the lift as I entered, so I flipped a switch to show the inbuilt iPod’s menu and was soon jiving to the godfather of soul on the way up to the Operations Decks. I had major concerns.
I sat down on a swivel chair and span round at a steady pace for around 15 minutes before getting down to work. Scribbling on a notepad I noted my observations that the usual absence of all staff in the building was now becoming a dangerous threat to security and progression at our institution. Up to this point, the physical appearance of each doctor was superfluous to them carrying out the duties they had assigned themselves to, however now that both were in jeopardy of becoming critical, something had to be going on. I hypothesised two similar, but totally different possible explanations before looking up ‘hypothesis’ in the dictionary and realizing I was on completely the wrong track.
As I write this I am still on the track of whatever it is that has caused these worrying changes. Unfortunately my progress has been slowed down somewhat by The Institute TV’s (TITV) coverage of The Ultimate Inter-Continental Pot-Planting Marathon, which is being hosted down the road at the local Garden Centre. We wish Dr. Shields all the best.
Written by J. King
Nights have become harder. Not for the first time in my employment here it’s been nearly a week since I last saw anybody else, and inane tasks are beginning to build up. A box of fountain pens appeared in the D-Deck Lounge two nights ago, in the cupboard just above the sink. I tried to write Dr. Randy a note telling him that the pens were meant for B-Deck 2 floors up but there were no cartridges, and my hand appeared to be wrapped in crude bandages sporting the Institute’s Water Polo Society logo. More strange than the pens or the fact that I couldn’t explain the bandages was that the logo was actually 2 years out of date.
Ever since last months’ Monthly General Meeting (MGM) in the Meeting Floor 4 Studios where Technician Hardcastle had passed the legislation that all society logos must be updated at least once in a “blue moon” all members of the staff have had to be extra vigilant. It was this discrepancy that disturbed me the most – even Dr. Jameson who apparently was last seen in the building over a year ago now has managed to maintain his societies’ graphics, both the Internal Alliance of Effeminate Flower-Growers and the Followers of Retired Angling Professionals.
My suspicions of foul-play were increased further when I took a brisk stroll around the corridors of the institute’s Regatta and Relaxation Zone on the 68th and currently unnamed floor. What would normally have been a quiet, yet bustling environment filled with hologramatic representations of small boys on sailing boats racing around the indoor swimming pool was completely empty. The notice boards, for the first time, were also blank; not one regatta was planned for the next 3 months, which was incredibly rare since Dr. Jay had christened the first, second and fourth Mondays of every month ‘Regatta Mondays’. We would all put on our best suits and sit in the spectator’s area on one side of the pool whilst an AI simulation of the best 19th-Century races ran in front of us. Technician Hardcastle who programmed the whole thing had once proclaimed it ‘the greatest invention since the bread bin’, but none of us had any idea what he meant.
It also came to my attention whilst on the floor that the volume of Snickers and Mars bar consumption had fallen dramatically in the last two weeks. Levels had been running around 40-50 crates a fortnight for the last year or so and now the storage closet in Relaxation Chamber A showed that in the past week only 5 crates had been signed out – all by someone using the pseudonym ‘Dark Lover’’.
I was perplexed to say the least, had it been something along the lines of ‘Heartthrob from Harunga’ or ‘Mr. Big’ then everything would make sense, but this was something I had never seen before. I quickly faxed a cease order to stop any more crates piling up and spilling into the corridors, and then grabbed a lab coat off the wall and waited for the elevator to arrive.
Rachmaninov was playing in the lift as I entered, so I flipped a switch to show the inbuilt iPod’s menu and was soon jiving to the godfather of soul on the way up to the Operations Decks. I had major concerns.
I sat down on a swivel chair and span round at a steady pace for around 15 minutes before getting down to work. Scribbling on a notepad I noted my observations that the usual absence of all staff in the building was now becoming a dangerous threat to security and progression at our institution. Up to this point, the physical appearance of each doctor was superfluous to them carrying out the duties they had assigned themselves to, however now that both were in jeopardy of becoming critical, something had to be going on. I hypothesised two similar, but totally different possible explanations before looking up ‘hypothesis’ in the dictionary and realizing I was on completely the wrong track.
As I write this I am still on the track of whatever it is that has caused these worrying changes. Unfortunately my progress has been slowed down somewhat by The Institute TV’s (TITV) coverage of The Ultimate Inter-Continental Pot-Planting Marathon, which is being hosted down the road at the local Garden Centre. We wish Dr. Shields all the best.
Written by J. King