I wondered how long it would be before I got the chance to write about a fit of rage.
The day wasn't off to a good start to begin with. I knew I was on earlies, so I made sure I was in bed nice and early last night. I did manage to get to sleep, but ended up waking up again, couldn't nod back off and that was that.
So in I walked at 7.00 this morning, bleary-eyed and with numb fingers (I've learned from discussing the matter with others that I'm the only person in the world who gets numb hands when they're tired).
Cock up number one: I enter the cash office, switch off the alarm, log the computer on and go back outside the door to check the pigeonhole. A micro-second before the door slams itself shut the image of the keys, lying next to the computer, flashes before me. I'm locked out. I have to get a colleague to drive me to the nearest key-holder's house - since my own car keys are now inaccessible - and all the way there I can see that damn set of keys, laughing hysterically at me.
Cock up number two: Having finally managed to get back in, I set about my morning routine. I have all the lunchboxes (we use them to keep the cash for each till separate) piled next to me and open the first one ready to count the cash onto the system. When the phone rings. You know very well how infuriating a ringing phone is when you're engaged in a pressing task.
I answer it and give the usual "Good morning, blah blah, how may I help you?" when I really want to answer it and scream "it's seven thirty A-M! Go back to bed!"
"b-b-b-b-b-b-y-y-y-yes, hullo, erm, er, I wonder if, er, you could tell me, er, what time you open this morning, er, er please." As you may have gathered, the person is elderly. Elderly people get up at four-thirty and twiddle their thumbs until an acceptable hour to be seen leaving the house.
The phone call distracts me and I, unwittingly, enter the till number as C1 - when I actually mean C11. I then proceed to process over £2000 into the wrong till. It's not until I come to do the previous day till discrepancy report that I discover my error.
Naturally, under the circumstances, I take hold of my pen and hammer it repeatedly into the desk, letting out a roar of anger as I do so.
Actually, that's a bit of a non-tantrum really. I was building up to that, and for what? A small vent of steam. Last week's hissy fit would have been better for sharing.
For various reasons, the mere discussion of which will result in a repeat tantrum, I repeatedly banged a large, flat, box I was holding into the floor. I gritted my teeth so hard I felt something crumble in my mouth, and had a bit of a rant (as best I could through clenched teeth) while I was at it. "HOW DARE THAT BITCH SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAAAAAAAAT!" Sadly, the box was full of important posters and I creased them quite badly. Oops.