Black

How is it that you can wake up and get ready for work without noticing that you are in a foul, black, bile-spitting mood. And for no reason. The first time you notice that all is not well is when you get stuck behind the slowest driver in the known universe and find yourself hissing vile imprecations at him. This will also be the only time in his life that Terry Wogan decides to play The Birdy Song on his breakfast show, and you are too busy gesticulating at the driver ahead and lighting your seventh cigarette to have a free hand to switch radio stations. So you are stuck with that tune in your head for weeks. When you arrive at work you have wound yourself up into such a state that you are incapable of climbing stairs without tripping, speaking a sentence coherently or typing anything without making 75 errors per word. All of which winds you up even tighter and you can actually hear a scream beginning in your toes and working itself up your body. My advice at times like these would be to leave. Just go home. Leaving the office immediately clears your head and because you no longer HAVE to be able to speak/type/walk, it all becomes possible, even delightful. You can sing cheerfully along to whichever mindless tune is playing, joyfully tip ash all over yourself and NOT CARE! None of this power-napping and five-minute relaxation technique stuff works. JUST GO HOME.