“Should I marry W? Not if she won’t tell me the other letters in her name…”

That’s a quote from Woody Allen, an actual humorist, as opposed to the only sane person in this world, as it felt today.

Let’s call him B. B came to me at work, the place where I work, C, is not doing so well at the moment. I have begged B for advice on how to reverse this trend. B’s suggestion today was that D, someone I nearly fired when I caught stealing, and who was sent in disgrace to another C, come in and take over.

I nearly pooed my pants , P. So D should come and try to rectify the problem which is none of her business, and be promoted over me, M?.  After I nearly P, I had to wander around for a couple of hours, with my mouth in a goldfish ‘O’ of incredulity.

In my rage, I threw a ham sandwich across the kitchen.

(Note: rarely will you have the chance to see rage, R, and ham sandwich, H, in the same sentence).

I must have missed that episode of Dr Phil where he spoke on the catharsis of cold meat flinging, but amazingly it helped. Once the R ebbed a little, I peeled the H off the floor, and started to calm down.

If only I had had a plate of lasagna, or a chicken pie, I could have achieved nirvana.

(I am now just seething and simmering away, but don’t be afraid to visit. It was one of those days where I dream of being a stay-at-home-dad, SAHD, instead of having to spend my days in pointless frustration, dealing with B’s, C’s and D’s).

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