Waiting for the Other Boot to Drop

I already know I am going to cop it at work tomorrow. This is a certainty, because tonight I spectacularly failed to bend time and space, so have been unable to conjure a necessary document hither from our Yorkshire friends, a document that my director has decided he needs by Monday 9am. The injustice is overwhelming, because my ears are still ringing from the shouting session I received this afternoon over this very issue. If people don't answer their phones, they don't answer their phones. Short of jumping in a car and driving up there, all I can do is leave messages on this lady's mobile and landline and email her. What else? Yodelling? God, I hate TV sometimes with this ridiculous pressure all the time over a document which will take up a nanosecond of time on screen and which no one will even notice.

Perhaps that attitude is why I will never be any good as a director, so long as I live. Which begs the question - why am I even in this crappy industry?

Of course my bad mood is more likely caused by the fact I burned myself on my straighteners on Monday, and have had curly hair all week because I am distinctly put off GHDs now. The blister on my finger says to me: "The fuck are you doing to your hair?" Unfortunately my mirror says to me: "Straighten your God-damned hair, you look like Wurzel Gummage."