It was the sort of week where I woke to a text informing me bluntly that Stuart will not be attending your meeting today as he died last night. Goodness, I thought to myself, might we perchance still be in the Period of Shittiness? Whoever would have thought it.
It was the sort of week where Ms Capable had an afternoon off sick, and another day when she asked for help. Heavens. The sort of week where YogaMan, the soul of calm and cool, swore and got angsty and lost his yin-yang equilibrium. It was the sort of week where NorthernBoy is too tired to go out for a drink on a Friday.
It was the sort of week where the Pet Poet, usually wreathed in smiles and extensive vocabulary, was reduced to shouting what the pissing hell? And the sort of week where Ms Superwoman had to go home at 6pm and lie down because she felt poorly, and then in a never-before instance of crapness, missed the fast train and will consequently be late for a meeting.
What is the world coming to?
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