Buggeration

Another totally effing avoidable delay at the office. What happened to those eight-hour shifts? They've been running for three nights and I've done nearly five hours over the top already. Better stop counting I think and just submit: fretting about it will drive me to an early grave, and then what would become of the young Inks? But I'll have to do something about that "S-T-U-P-I-D" someone cunningly tattooed back to front on my forehead while I was distracted, assuring me that my career would prosper. Prosper? Are you sure? Tonight's performance - nail biting, stomach churning, anger rising in the chest cavity as I waited and waited for someone to do something so that I could then do my thing with it - was topped only by the delay at midnight (cue drum roll, rinky-tink circus music and custard pies) as there was yet more WAITING while someone else swept his chattels into his briefcase, said goodnight to everybody in turn and stumbled towards the lift...then had to STOP to check he had his long-distance specs. I turned my face to the ceiling, scrunched my eyes up tight like prunes and let out a scream audible only to dogs. At least the bus was there to take us to the car park and I grumbled all the way. "I've no position, status or authority in this department, you know...blah, blah...just one of the grunts...blah, blah...should be working the same hours as the rest...blah, blah...put up with it for years and now the dregs of the reservoir of good will are circling the plughole...blah, blah". Drove home cross-faced and induced indigestion by munching on some yukkie thing I meant to put in the fridge. Then felt ashamed when I remembered that my travelling companion, a sweet and good man, had kept his cool when I knocked a whole pint of milk into his previous briefcase.