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(Jeff and Ron walk out and onto the street. Jeff is clutching a pile of junk mail.)
JEFF: Bloody hell, will you look at all this junk mail. Supermarkets, department stores, pizza shops. On a Sunday, too. Must be half a tree here.
RON: What, the garden centre sent something too?
JEFF: Well it might have helped if they had. At least they're actually open on Sunday. Why is it that the bulk of the junk mail arrives on Sunday? When most people are still recovering from over enthusiastic Saturday nights. They might be doing a public service if it suggested hangover cures on the back of the catalogue.
RON: Why's it called a hangover?
JEFF: Well, I could tell you something about it being named after a pub in Hanover, but basically it's because someone decided that sounded a lot better than "splitting bloody headache after a night's heavy drinking, serves you right for getting completely pissed at your kid's birthday party, you bastard".
(They reach a set of traffic lights. Jeff presses the button.)
RON: Maybe one Sunday I'll wedge all the junk mail out of the mailbox, and spend the rest of the day taking all of it back to the places that sent it out.
JEFF: Why not just mail it back?
RON: Because I don't think writing "Return To Sender" on it would work. How long do these traffic lights take to change?
JEFF: Ron me ol' mate, the traffic light was designed by the same team of complete twerps that wrote the software in elevators. Elevators sit open as you approach, the doors invitingly open. Just as you get to them, they start to close. At that split second, you press the button, so you can try and get in. So, what does the lift do? It reasons, according to the rules provided to it in its software; it says: "Love that elevator music. All right, I'm closing the doors, but someone pressed the button. They must want the lift. But the doors, though they are currently closing, are still open. Therefore, the person can get in. So I'll keep closing the doors, and bugger off to another floor."
RON: Is this strictly relevant?
JEFF: Not particularly, no. Suffice to say that the brain behind the elevator excelled himself when the traffic light was born. These things are designed to delay everybody. You press the button to cross. There's hardly a car on the road, but the traffic light bides its time. Finally, just as a stream of cars approaches, the light changes, and you get to cross. You've been delayed. The cars have been delayed. And the only one happy is the traffic engineer, who's watching this happen all over town, knowing he's responsible for the national time shortage.
10: The Cup
