I am fed-up. I am seriously fed-up. I am mega fed-up. My fed-uppidity has gone beyond all normal levels and has now reached level four hundred and sixty which is a really difficult level and the star is right high up and you have to do all sorts of different jump kicks to get it. Or am I getting confused with Mario. Which I can’t play anyway because I lost the fricking lead that plugs into the fricking telly which is just another of those things that adds to the generalised fed-uppiness. But the specific fed-up thingy is that it is the end of my fricking holiday and I have to go back to fricking work and I am fed-up. Fricking fed-up.

I have had a nice week really. I have done all sorts of little things I wanted to do. Nothing fancy, nothing wow. And perhaps that is the problem. Nothing is wow. Why can’t I be wow at the moment? I want to be wow. At least a little bit. But I am not wow, or even wo, and not sure I can even claim to be w. I’m a little dribble of bleugh.

I invited a bunch of dudes from work to trample my lawns and take tea with me yesterday and only one turned up. One is worth it of course but what a miserable shower of bastards the rest are. Sorry but the term ‘shower of bastards’ is one used by Father Jack and isn’t meant to be wholly offensive. I am not really networking well at the moment. I contacted an old friend and asked her to meet up for coffee/lunch/anything else and she didn’t even reply. Perhaps I should start using deodorant! I am, believe or not, very shy and it takes an awful lot of building up of courage to make any kind of advance and I can’t take too many more knock-backs this year.

I shall have to go, before this turns into a long saga of feeling sorry for myself, now where did I put my emergency Baileys………………