And I can't even blame PMT...

Grr...one of those nipple-twistingly irritating afternoons.

I went to the gym. That, you might suggest, is sufficient grounds for an irritating afternoon. I shouldn't have gone, really, because there must still be a dinghyful of lurgy splashing around inside me, but on the outside all that's left is a sexy rasp (squeak), so I thought I was OK*. Alas, my fitness instructor was out for revenge after my piking on her last week, and as I left the Palais de Sweat my legs were so bloody wobbly I could hardly support myself and I felt vaguely nauseous.

But that wasn't really the problem. I went into the gym irritated because I was too lazy to catch the bus out to the uni this morning, and so keeping my appointment with Charlene Atlas and her Dynamic Tension meant finding somewhere to park Erik the Red, in the city, just before the clearways kick in. After an aborted attempt to masquerade as a Barina in a small car space at the uni I had to give up and park in the most bloody expensive carpark in the CBD to avoid being late. It's such a flagrant waste of money, borne of my own stubborn refusal to get out of bed and get organised, and it always makes me cross.

Anyway, post gym on jelly-pins I flob up to get my photos printed - the third time I've tried this week, at last I have it together with my USB stick IN my handbag WITH the right files on it - and they've taken the machine away! So frustrated I end up spending FOUR TIMES the original price in another store...and too late I discover Erik is going to eat up another hour's worth in the carpark before they're ready. Arggh!

I take myself down to Borders for a soothing browse...and discover the rare book I ordered from Amazon last week at great personal trouble and expense is frolicking there in discounted flocks. Grrr! What do I do to console myself at this unjustifiable expense? Ah, how well you know me - I BUY A CD, don't I?

Race back to the carpark and reunite with Erik just before the 3-hour levy kicks in. Ah, but it's peak hour, and the time limit comes and goes while I'm sitting in the CO3 wind tunnel with every other bastard driver this metropolis has to offer, and I have to hand over a small fortune to buy my freedom. Drive straight into knock-off time traffic and spend 40 minutes getting home - plenty of time to notice that half of my photos are blurry. Straight through the front door and a beer into the face - it's the only way : )

* Although I should've twigged yesterday at work on the intercom.

STUDIO 1: Studio 1 to Captions.

ME: Captions here.

STUDIO 1: Sending the update through now.

ME: We're right to go, thanks.

STUDIO 1: Thanks, Andrew. (!)