LOWER STILL
I've always been a little bit clumsy: tripping over paving stones here; banging my head into a wall there; slicing my finger with a knife while using it as a screwdriver, even though I already warned myself that it would end in blood and tears.

Silly mistakes, though, were never my leitmotif, not at work, not at school. So why does everything I touch right now seem to go more pear-shaped than a ton of conference pairs laid out in the shape of a pair? It's like I've acquired a deranged, spiteful form of the Midas-touch: turning everything to shit, rather than gold.

Last night was a case in point: when attempting the Herculean task of printing out some scripts I contrived to drag the aforementioned stories into the (non-retrievable) waste-bin; stuff went to the wrong computer, and now my boss wants "my version" of events!

I'm all for going out with a bang. But my subconscious seems to have taken things a little more literally than I would have liked.

So, instead of dreading coming in to work because it's unchallenging, I now dread it for my boss's next note. He's clearly watching every move I make right now. And believe it or not I am trying to ensure that nothing I do catches his beady eye. It just seems that the more I try, the further into the quicksand I sink. I'm currently up to my left nostril.