So today at work has been crazy busy, fire fighting left right and centre which in exhibition speak rather than real fire fighters speak means talking down very angry gallery owners after giving them terrible news about their space and trying to persuade them not to pull out of the show, for which the catalogue, (which incidentally I have sweated blood over for the last three weeks) has already gone to print with them in it.

This is obviously nothing to even begin complaining about compared to, for example a real fire fighter who might have pulled a charred corpse out of someone’s ex-home, and I dislike myself immensly for even whinging, which just adds to the general malaise. This state of mind produces a comforting retreat into vapid thoughts such as:

"Whoever thought that putting dehydrated bits if carrot and pea in “cup-a-soup” is innovative and delicious is completely fucking insane."

On this note I shall take my vapid thoughts home, do the graveyard shuffle on the Northern Line along with millions of people that Turtle and I have affectionately dubbed “The Shits” and hoover the Rat House. Yee-Fuckin-Ha.

Yes, glum Wednesday syndrome affects us all.