Cross. Again.

This morning left me in a furious, snarling rage. I can't be bothered to explain - suffice to say that my mild-mannered assistant spent the hour between eleven and midday swearing like a drunken docker with Tourette's, and I positively stalked out of the office at lunchtime. Poor old Other Half - once more on the receiving end of one of my monumental huffs. To his credit, he cheered me up immensely – there he was, staring dreamily at flat-screen tellies and dancing to the piped music in a major electrical store in a particularly effete manner (the Other Half loves to dance. Most of the time it's like being at stage school - you know, the sort where the kids spontaneously erupt into a seamless yet unrehearsed full-scale production of West Side Story in the corridor outside the canteen just because, ooh, life is just so brilliant!!), when a voice over his left shoulder enquired politely as to whether he needed any assistance. He blushed scarlet and asserted that no, thanks, he was just looking and I tried very very hard indeed not to wee.

And woo! and yay! We're off to see Motorhead tonight. Tomorrow I shall be stone deaf (eh?) and infinitely more interesting*.


* Interestingness cannot be guaranteed.