yellow and small

I sit in the meeting and doodle frantically as though it might help release me. Tunnel vision. Erialc notices and nudges me; 'Going well, then?' she asks. We dissolve into silent schoolgirl giggles at Trouble, who sits opposite us rolling her extravagant eyes and signing. I constantly expect someone to tell us off in staff meetings: we certainly deserve it, but oh, they are dull.

Later on I try to hide downstairs but a stream of people come in and ask me inane questions. When I realise that the ability to be polite has deserted me I grab my coat and leave, come home and spend half an hour hitting the wardrobes with a hammer. A little directed violence. It doesn't help; I end up leaning against the wall in the halflight with the hammer in one hand, despairing at the bloody mess that I have made. Even though it was all a bloody mess in the first place. I excuse myself on the grounds of growing darkness and slide downstairs, guilty at the unfinished business and work-related frustration. Write about it. Does that count as doing something useful with my day? (Not really.)

Thursday tomorrow. Nearly the end of the week. Good.