It's a funny old world isn't it? Strange the way things pan out. Take for instance the New Year's truce forged between the PFY and myself. On one hand we reached a landmark accord which allowed us to work in harmony with each other and the users and on the other hand I'm now locked in a dark basement room that the PFY tricked me into visiting by saying that the PR people's expensive new kit had been misdelivered there - all because he found out that I'd arranged for people to harass him mercilessly on the first day.
I'd have explained to the PFY that this was all organised before the truce between us had been struck, only I was in a bit of a hurry to get my hands on the 25-inch LCD monitors that the PFY had said had just appeared in the basement...
The newly installed large electronic lock on the door of the room should have been a dead giveaway but the PFY had also mentioned in passing that he thought the monitors came with 5.1 surround satellite speakers and I may have been a little overexcited - which goes to show that I just don't learn from my mistakes. George Santayana would be ashamed of me.
The dodgy lighting in the room - which failed once the door slammed shut - also should have rung alarm bells but in my rush to the supposed new kit I didn't think about it.
So now I'm trapped in a room which is almost certainly been hand-picked by the PFY for the density of the concrete and remoteness from human contact...
What would MacGyver do?
Unfortunately I don't have the couple of rubber bands, alarm clock and six feet of galvanised drainpipe which he'd use to create a working masonry drill so I'm going to have to switch into geek mode.
Hmm... It's dark, I'm in a basement... ...
>ADVENTURE MODE ON!<
It's pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
You have: a small bag, a half consumed chocolate bar.
The bag contains: a lifebook p1000 ultraportable, a Philips head screwdriver, a flat blade screwdriver, a piece of wire.
What I wouldn't give for a shiny brass lamp.... Hmmm...
The bag is open.
I don't know what that is.
TURN P1000 ON
I don't know how to do that.
The laptop turns powers up and floods part of the room in light. You have 6 hours of battery life remaining.
The door is made of solid wood with steel reinforcing. The steel looks new. The backplate of a large electronic lock is embedded in the wood.
The backplate cannot be unscrewed.
The hinges are the high security, autoclosing welded pin type.
The bloody PFY thinks of everything...
You are in a small room with concrete walls, floor and roof.
There are some empty wooden computer crates here.
You have 5.45 hours of battery life remaining.
The walls are made of steel reinforced concrete and are very thick.
The floor is made of steel reinforced concrete and is very thick
The roof is made of steel reinforced concrete and is very thick. There is a thermal fire detector on the roof.
You can't reach!
The crates are now stacked in an easily climbable pile.
You are at roof level. There is a thermal fire detector here.
HIT DETECTOR WITH P1000
You hit the detector with your lifebook, partly to damage it and partly because getting a battery and recovery disks for it is proving to be such a royal pain to do.
The detector breaks and you feel slightly better about running XP on a machine with only 128M of memory.
Time passes. You have 4.5 hours of battery time remaining.
Time passes. You have 7 hours of battery life remaining.
Your P1000 switches off - possibly because the battery life has never worked properly with a dud battery or possibly because you used it as a hammer.
It's pitch dark, and you can't see a thing.
It's pitch dark, and you can't see a thing. You hear sounds outside the door.
BANG ON DOOR
The sounds outside the door get much louder, as if someone were hitting it with a large axe.
The door is open, there is a fireman here.
"That was a lucky call," the fireman says to me as I exit through the wreckage of the door. Ordinarily we don't respond to sensor faults, but the monitoring company said that they'd had someone tampering with your company's config this morning so they wanted to be on the safe side."
"And I'm so pleased they did!" I say.
"Yeah, apparently the person who did the tampering did reset the service-mode switch, which trips an alarm after 4 hours."
"The service-mode switch you say?" I ask. "And how does one reset that then - not that I'd ever need to use it to isolate a room which I would subsequently lock my assistant into."
"Nothing, thanks again, and if you'll just excuse me I have to go and see my assistant..."
>F.E.A.R MODE ON!<