Mr Woodlow

"It's no wonder your company's so ***** and it's going down the pan," said Mr Woodlow. He'd been building up to this head of steam, right from the moment I'd introduced myself. "No-one ever gets back to me," he chuffed, "and then when you finally do, what you produce is a ******* pile of **** that looks like the kind of **** that's been put together by ******* children!"

"Look, if I can..."

"No you ****** can't, just get somebody to come out here and talk to me or don't ******* bother." Click.

"Mr Woodlow, let me.... Mr Woodlow?..." The phone was dead. I hung up and exhaled.

Later, I was walking through Reading town centre. It was the kind of day that just felt like the beginning of Autumn: brilliant blue sky, low and bright sunshine, and crispy leaves blown about the park by a cool breeze. They danced across the grass between the shadows. I thrust my hands into my coat pockets and walked briskly past. I can't do this for much longer, I thought to myself.

I still think that. But it's not just the likes of Woodlow that shape my thinking. The world is packed with Woodlows: frustrated and insecure, biting and snarling when they believe they're hard done by. Nope, not Woodlow; rather, the season itself.

This year the urge to go back to uni is stronger than ever before. I don't know why that is, but suddenly, just today, I found myself missing my friends, missing the adventure, the freedom, the youth and the liberty that university brought. Perhaps it's the weather. Yep, regular readers will notice of course that this does happen every year. And yes, I'll get over it - but today, a good 15 years after I first went to Bath, I still found myself longing for all that it held for me. In fact, I broke down in tears about it today... which is a silly thing, isn't it?

This feeling wasn't helped when Facebook told me something I didn't want to know. I am going to write down one day, all the reasons why I loathe the spambook, but way up near the top will always be: finding out things you just don't want to know. Today it told me something very painful about my family that will not be easy to handle or discuss. And I hate that I had to find out so coldly and impersonally.

Someone I know just tweeted that the 'squeaking duck gets shot.' I get the picture. I shall stop whinging. And anyway it's late (1am) and I should be dreaming. Knowing me now, I'll probably dream about shooting Mr Woodlow through the reeds with a rifle.

God I am sorry. I've got a long way to go.