In which your author finds himself getting stabby again
I find myself - once again for reasons too depressing to elaborate - in some sort of management seminar.
Whilst fully expecting low-hanging fruit to be plucked, one can only expect the worst...
And, as is often the case, some far-too-happy woman with frizzy hair bounds up to the lectern and lets out that kind of whoop you only ever hear on unconvincing advertisements for male grooming products.
"Stand up!" she bellows, and dozens of bewildered attendees rise to their feet, not knowing why they obey.
"Now! Let's all have a shakedown and banish those Monday morning blues!" - And she leads us through a series of bizarre exercises to The Birdie Song, designed to bring the "Fun" into the "Funnily enough, I don't want to be here either."
I, on the other hand, have decided to sit this one out, and Ms Frizzy isn't pleased, and points at me through the room full of suited whirlish dervishes.
"You! Yes - you! Why aren't you shaking out your Monday morning blues?"
Number one: It is Tuesday.
Number two: "I am writing a list."
"A list? What kind of list?"
"The same thing I do whenever I go to one of these things"
"Yeah - I write down the order in which I'm going to have everybody killed."
"It's my 'Final Destination' game"
"Err... Who's first?"
As if she had to ask.