Blimey, I'm glad the working week has crawled to a halt. I'm all out of haust. Sigh! Too many workplace tasks hanging over me that are badly in need of check-marks. Brain feeling scrambled. Got a nagging feeling just behind my forehead, an almost airy feeling, like the surface of my brain is being slowly scratched away by the feather-light but persistent touch of wire wool. It feels like I'm going through withdrawal, it feels like I need a cigarette even though I've not touched one in years, or a strong drink, or a bungee-secured plummet from a bridge, or a night of hardcore banging techno; I need some adrenaline. I think its just a head cold, its work, its all sorts of things.
My internal jukebox has been silenced. This is wrong - my internal jukebox is never muted. But no, all I've got is an internal talk-radio-box, an insistent chattering. Right now its saying "I can give you this information, but under the data protection act, are you aware of the consequences of giving out this information to the wrong person". This mantra, trapped in my neural circuits from the time when I worked for a leading British telecommunications company, providing information for the sales team who tradition and culture and bad strategic thinking dictated would not have up-to-date information on their customers to hand.
Ah, the Data Protection Act. We touched on the DPA during a training session about the Freedom of Information Act 2000, which will be valid in the UK from January 2005, and will allow anyone in the community to obtain whatever information they require from publicly-funded bodies. Its going to be a big headache, especially now that journalists are being trained to take use and abuse it to their advantage, but its just a small part of my big global headache.
Gah! Make it stop, please! Somebody shoot me with a vodka...