Tuesday was one of 'those days'. You know the ones...where everything you touch, rather than turning to gold, simply shrivels up and dies. Yes, it was one of those days.
It started rather well. I had my probationary interview with my employers at Binland. I'm not saying that they were pleased with me, but I had to Vaseline my ears thoroughly to get through the office door when we were finished. It's lovely knowing that you're doing a good job. Thinking about this, I don't know if I am any good at the other job I do - 'mothering'. As I have yet to be told otherwise, I suppose it's easier to assume that I am bloody marvellous at that also.
So back to work where I was off to visit a food recycling plant. Now this was a bit tricky. I had come into work dressed for a day in the office. Smart three quarter trousers, shirt, pumps and make up. Fast forward two hours and you find me in the same clothes, except for the pumps which had been swapped for steel toe capped boots and a pair of borrowed socks from the Depot Manager. My three quarter length trousers didn't quite meet the boots, so there was quite an expanse of striped sock on show. Not the best of looks.
It was windy so my hair, never that keen on doing the right thing, had made a bid for freedom and was resembling an explosion in a mattress factory. My mascara (which I have to scrape off each night with a trowel it's stuck on so well) took one look at the rain, and decided to head south. I wasn't sure how far down my face it had gone, but as I was with three men and not wanting to appear too girly, I subtly wiped, and wiped again, in a vain attempt to stop myself looking like a demented panda.
Driving back to the office, I am sure that Mr W (the office Voice of Reason) must have noticed that I looked out the side window all the way back. It was just as well that he was driving rather than me I suppose. I had to race into the loo to do a quick repair job before going back to my desk. To be honest, there wasn't much I could do with only toilet roll and a couple of hair grips, but I expect Master B and Master P simply put my dishevelled look down to old age, menopause or madness. (Possibly all three even).
Leaving the office after lunch, I was off to the dentist. I hate the dentist, and have to be very brave to even dial the number to make an appointment. This fear was made worse when I was mistaken for another patient a couple of years ago. Now that's a story which needs a page of its own. Another day perhaps.
Taking a deep breath, I walked up to the receptionist and announced my reluctant arrival.
'You didn't listen to the message then?' she said looking at me very disapprovingly.
'No', I said, 'What did it say?'
'We had to cancel your appointment - your dentist had to go home'.