There's no Ho-Ho-Ho in my life at the moment, no matter how many times I see Jason Donovan warbling about prawn platters in a festive Iceland ad. Before I can clear off for Chrimbo I have to do my feeble best to plough through a work mountain so large that Ranulph Fiennes is tackling it from another slope.
I may be flat out but rest assured there's still time in the schedule for some serious self pity. Canteen yoghurt for lunch again. WHY AM I SO CURSED? All the sectretaries have legged it at 17.29 and 59 seconds sharp, as per bloody usual. WHY CAN'T I BE A SECRETARY INSTEAD? There's people moving around in the street outside who are laughing and smiling and happy. WHY DON'T THEY COME IN AND HELP ME?
This isn't helped by my brain increasingly becoming a morning person. Or brain. 7am - I'm on fire. 11am - cooking on gas. 2pm - oooh, slowing down. 4pm - starting to slur words. 6pm - white noise. Still I sit here into the night, gamely staring at dreary Word documents to no avail while a gentle snoring leaks out of my ears.
There's only one hope - the lottery. Operation Derren Brown Kidnap starts here. Who's in?
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