Well, picking up on the word "bickering" in the OP and addressing myself mainly to those who affect to be offended a term used of an inanimate object like time limits, and especially those who claim to be have sic a panic in their breastie that they need a long time (not a short time, note) to calm down, I say they need to apply some perspective.
I'd like to remind them that there are far more important things in this world to worry about, by quoting a REAL catastrophe; this one, appropriately, from a mouse's point of view.
I'm going back to my schooldays of learning poetry by heart, but this is originally from the pen of the immortal Burns, the ploughman poet, who ploughed through a mouse's nest one day and found compassion in his heart.
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a PANIC's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' BICKERING brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
Incidentally, it occurs to me that as a go reference, this verse is superbly apposite (e.g. of
ijime):
Quote:
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
And this portion describes many a game:
Quote:
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane.
But, you know, I must address myself, too. I try repeatedly to get discussions going here, 9 times out of 10 without success and often because (as in this latest case) threads are hijacked, so I should likewise heed the poet:
Quote:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley.
I will stop trying to get discussions going.