<nostalgia>Ah, time and materials, time and materials.... the good old days. </nostalgia>
...says the man who's just written three bids for essentially identical packages of work for three separate developing nations' governments, all on a fixed price scope, time and materials execution basis - because that's what they wanted. Hurrah, hurrah.
...next to the bog. The day was when I used to wonder why all the fat, sweaty, greasy mamas from Accra thought that eating fish curry prior to boarding was a good idea... And why incontinent arms dealers with poor aim and no sense of shame whatsoever would think that I - or anyone else- would want to talk - or listen - to them for the hours and hours and bloody hours of the bloody flight?
At least the be-shaded Xe guys with the high-and-tights and 5.11 trousers would only spill their beers on you while trying to explain how they applied the lessons learned in Baghdad to their contract security 'ops manager' positions.
Still, who gives a toss when those days are behind you?
Ah ! Memories of a burning arrse as the Rapsican mix in the aluminium pail reacted to the turbulence whilst all I had to grab hold of during that 13 hour flight was a canvas stable door - with no bottom section - luxury - and the Youngsters don't believe us any more.
Appalling. Generally you have to be there before 0900 in order to get them fresh. Worse yet, the other day at Dulles, the Daily Telegraph hadn't been ironed and you had to walk 200m to get to the smoking room. Standards, hah.
Disgraceful. Our pilots fill up a bucket of greasy baguettes for our 6 o'clock shuttle and dump them behind the copilot, who has to endure a scrum when they ting ting the ding-dong thing at 5000 feet, while fighting to control the suddenly unbalanced plane. We punish them by leaving bits of oily paper in the seat-back pockets for them to hoick out later.
(The Fockers get us back by occasionally sweetening the load with chocolate-filled pastry concoctions, which tend to squirt their contents onto your shirt. Still, it gives you something to suck on during the long hours before they crashland randomly onto whichever bit of Earth seems flat and close to a hotel with a good bar).