I'll be effing and jeffing like Jezza if my week carries on like this.
I made it to work for the first time since last Monday then had to go on the desk first thing and was unable to take two calls I received on my mobile until I got off at 10. Instead I had to try and whittle down the 137 emails in my inbox. I manage to get it down to 112 by dealing with the easy ones.
I then went off somewhere quiet to listen to the voicemail messages and the first was from some dozy, cunting BT cunting Openreach cunting engineer saying that he'd turned up (unannounced) and there was nobody (imagine that!) in to allow him to check our broken phone point so he was fecking off and I'd have to get in touch with our ISP again. Thanks a bunch you clown! Funnily enough, I don't organise my life on the basis that an engineer might happen to turn up at some point without notice and I'm fucked if I'm doing any more legwork after spending nearly an hour on and off the phone to Sky on Saturday afternoon.
And BT/Openreach wonder why customers desert them for Sky and Virgin! Jesus Christ! They're not open about when they're arriving and they can't seem to reach very far either.
The second voicemail was from a distraught Mrs Y who was off looking after Miss Y today when she heated up some Vicks and water in the microwave, only for it to explode in her face when she took it out. It went in both her eyes so she's now at the Royal Berks while I'm hot footing it back from Oxford to look after Miss Y and prepare an overnight bag for Mrs Y's stay in hossie.
At this rate the frigging train will probably crash and I'll never get a chance to eat the jerk chicken and mango salsa wrap or deliver the get well soon card I got from M&S.
Saints had better get promoted this season or I'm going to be very cross.