Work has suddenly got very very very busy.
Bend me over a barrel, call me Duncan, and then shit on my chest. Why don't you.
Europeans all go on holiday, to fornicate and bake on the Spanish seaboard, during August and September. It's peaceful and warm in London.
My favourite time of year in England. Which is why I don't leave. I leave London when it's shit.
It's 28 degrees outside, sun streaming down - which arouses a suspicion most sharp - am I missing something? What's the catch? - and yet my inbox is bursting at the seams, everyone wants a piece of me, everyone wants to suddenly launch projects that need my involvement, everyone needs a spokesperson, I'm fielding calls from the US this week, it's my company's birthday (which garners attention in the .com world), and, because it's beginning of quarter, we are in 'planning phase.'
Suddenly I'm sweating like Schwarzenegger during a paternity test, I'm talking on two phones at once, and I feel myself aging.
I'm haggled, not sleeping because my cogs are going round and round on overtime, and the fact that I'm even pausing to write this fucking post is more than a little bit ludicrous.
The fact that I am having to go to America for a whole week's work is great and all, but it's also put a major fucking backlog on other shit going down in Blighty that I have to take care of.
So that's my first world problem.
If you want something from me today - and Jesus it had better be fucking important - I'd approach me with extreme caution.
I'm a walking human bio-hazard.