Sulks and grumps

I am not by nature a grumpy person. I would say I have a fairly sunny, easy-going disposition (although I do get perhaps a little confrontational after a few too many glasses of wine).

But today Frangelita is not a happy bunny. Oh no. I had a week's holiday after Glastonbury (much needed recuperation, did absolutely nothing apart from a little bit of random cycling, some reading, some sleeping, and a lot of cleaning mud out of inexplicable places).

Last Wednesday I got a message from one of my bosses telling me I would be covering for a district reporter at one of our weekly papers in North Oxfordshire for three days this week. I wasn't too happy, but hey, what you going to do.

So I've spent three mind-numbingly dull days in the town which is only famous for being in a quite frankly rubbish nurseryy rhyme, I've done my time, I've churned out a wide selection of not very inspiring stories and put up with the weirdest office in the world (it's got a computer on one desk then the phone is on a completely different desk on the other side of the room, what's that about?). I even guilt-tripped all the newsdesk into calling me, in tandem, this afternoon as I had muttered briefly to Curtains that I had spoken to no-one all week.

Got home and was instantly plunged into a good mood as HF had cooked me a delicious meal - a rare occurence indeed.

So I was sitting, reading the Radio Times (I am the only person I know that does this, but so what, I like the articles), when my phone rang. It was one of my bosses.

He started by thanking me effusively for my work this week, which to begin with was why I thought he called (he did after all phone me for absolutely no reason this afternoon other than to offer "pastoral support"). Then he said: "And because you've done such a good job, would you mind going to this other district office in South Oxfordshire for Thursday and Friday?"

Well, yes, actually. Three days in the most boring market town in Britain and I'm already losing my edge - I feel like if I have to deal with anything more challenging than a lost cat I just won't know what to do (joking, obviously). So the last thing I want is two more days in a bloody district office. And this one has the bonus of being full of old dirty men (the kind of reporters that they don't really make anymore who vanish for three hour liquid lunches).

But you can't really say no to your boss. And he promised me I'd be back in Oxford on Monday.

Well, I'd better be *mutters darkly to self, furrowing eyebrows in an attempt to look evil*

More on that story later