21 October 2026
Wednesday. Somebody has found my notebook. Somebody has put it on the internet. I kept these notes private for years and they have lasted, by my estimate, forty minutes online.
Very well. If you are reading this, you are either a survivor thinking of coming in, or a former colleague who got out and has been too embarrassed to write. Either way, hello. Wash your hands.
What you will find here: the comings and goings of my labs in Perth, Sydney and Melbourne, notes on Gerald’s moods, the odd complaint about the kettle, and the truth about what happens when strangers finish your life’s work for you.
What you will not find: the formula for the cure, the order of the steps, or where anything is kept. A scientist does not write that in a notebook anybody can read. She writes it in a notebook nobody can read, which is a different notebook, and I have lost it.
If you mean to come in, the staff take bookings on their calendar or over the phone. Bring three friends at most. Gerald will be waiting. Gerald is always waiting.
— Dr Morrow, Storeroom B
