Advice for expectant parents

When naming your child you should avoid names which could easily be used as the title of a country and western song.

Two days to go live - An uneasy calm descends upon the project

Picture the scene, we're on the bridge of HMS Happless, a Royal Navy destroyer somewhere in the North Atlantic. It's November 18th 1942, the middle of winter, we're steaming into the teeth of a force nine gale which is howling in from the North East. Huge mountainous grey, green waves are crashing down on the deck, obscuring the forward gun turret. Strung out ahead of us are the running lights of the convoy of ships carrying vital supplies from our allies across the Atlantic. It's our job to protect them from the wolves of the sea: the dreaded Nazi U-boats that strike from the ocean's icy depths without warning; sending men, equipment and supplies to Davy Jones' locker. Suddenly, the wind drops, the clouds part, the maelstrom calms. The captain lights his pipe and takes a swig from his cocoa: the sweet smell of tobacco and chocolate wafts across the small open space of the bridge. He pulls the hood of his duffel coat tighter against the biting cold. He looks at us and almost whispers, "Jerry's quiet tonight chaps … damned quiet… too damned quiet …" It is the calm before the storm: we eye the surrounding waters for the tell tale sign of a periscope, we know that it is a case of when, not if…

Rules rule, OK?

Of all things, petty bureaucracy ranks as the one of the main causes of red mist in my life. Our project goes live this weekend, the culmination of two years of hard work. Things are a little tense. It's all hands to the pumps, man the lifeboats blah blah. Last minute tasks are being done, there are still a few fixes outstanding, political people are getting political and arses are either being kicked or covered dependent upon where you are in the food chain. There is a major problem. In the midst of this hive of activity one of the team has committed the most heinous of crimes. This morning he travelled to work in casual clothes but forgot to bring a business shirt (the dog ate it apparently). As a result he is sitting at his desk, elbows deep in code, sweat pouring from his concentration furrowed brow, working like a Trojan, wearing a casual sweater. There's been a complaint about him not adhering to the discriminatory company dress code that requires gentlemen to wear a collar and tie. He is not overjoyed by this!

Best wishes for your impending ending

What the hell do you put in a get well card when the recipient not going to get well?