Oh!  I am angry today. I'm quite sure I haven't told you the backstory, so I'll have to be quick here.  Lots of calls, lots of deals, lots of queries lots of lazy fuckers - welcome to The Tank. 

I don't take this pressure very well. Actually I tend to take it very well for a certain length of time and then BOOM, BLAST, EXPLOOOOSSSIIIOOOOONNNN!! I just let loose and God love the person at the wrong end of it.

So the week before Easter was a particularly bad week. It was like no one wanted to do their job, just sit there, reading the internet, sending emails, sighing and complaining about having "so much work to do" but actually not doing anything really.  I had reached my limit, I was nearly there, I'd already rather acerbically asked if I was the only one answering phones, I'd snapped at three people, told another that there was a newsflash, he wasn't the only one busy and it was coming up to 4pm on Thursday before Easter.  It was like the tanks were never going to open again, the phones did not stop ringing. 

In short, in a fit of exasperation and rage, I snapped at one of the fish, fucked the ball and chain on the desk, shouted at him, walked off, he shouted after me, I shouted back.  All handbags at dawn shit, but I felt really bad. It was childish of me and I spent most of the weekend trying to figure out if I was in any way right...and I can honestly say I was wrong.  Do I think I should not have gotten annoyed? No. Do I think I overreacted? Yes.  But I came to the conclusion that he is a grown man-fish who's hitting on 40 and quite frankly should at this stage of his life be able to deal with an emotional / angry outburst from a colleague, even if she was female!

Two minutes later I came back to the desk, said nothing, was still shaking with rage (and embarassment if truth be known), but continued to do the job for the final hour. He left early and we did not speak of it.  He arrived in on Monday, was ever so polite to me...and we did not speak of it again. 

That was a month ago.  Today I was sitting in my review with my fish-manager and he asked "So Nemo, The Shark?  Is he pissing you off?" 
"Huh?  Uh no?"
"Oh, just...."
"Are you talking of something in particular? Like I snapped at him a few weeks back"
"Oh, um, yeah, it was mentioned that you got annoyed and I wanted to hear your side of the story"
"Well, oh to be honest it's quite a while ago and I'm not really interested in rehashing it unless he has spoken to you and you feel you need to address it?"  (I should add at this point, I was almost being facetious, I thought, what near 40 year old man-fish would run to teacher?!  ONE!)
"Well when he told me, he did say he didn't like how you reacted"...

So there I am mid thirties, in a work environment, explaining to "teacher" why I snapped at a work colleague. Do not get me wrong, I totally admit that I over-reacted, that I shouldn't have shouted and perhaps fucking the ball and chain on my desk was a tad aggressive!!  My issue is not with him being pissed, my issue is that the man did not have the balls to come to me and address it that day, the next week, a couple of days later, but instead chose to "tell teacher"... I'm sorry Shark, but I have lost what little respect I had for you. End of.

Bring on the day when I can finally jump into the toilet, hope someone yanks that chain and release myself from The Tank.  Due respects to a select few, but I do not belong there!!

I have some pretty hardcore guilty pleasures – Saturday’s Irish Independent, E4’s 90210, Jon Bon Jovi, but the greatest of all I’m about to confess today. I have a bit of a penchant for Garth Brooks, his music! 

My “penchant” for Mr. Brooks music began many years ago, a secret I’ve hidden well for quite some time, but it came to the fore a few weeks back when I was in a friend’s house as we went through our stuff to see what we’d sell at the car boot sale (honestly, there is only so much judgement I can take in one post, I’ll come back to you on the CBS, judge me another day)…and I saw Garth Brooks Greatest Hits on CD. Now, over the years I have tried to source GB’s songs on iTunes, Limewire, AN Other piracy source but all to no avail. The best I could do was a few badly recorded snippets on YouTube. I had all but given up on ever owning ‘a bit of Garth’, but you should have seen my excitement when I opened the rather damaged CD box to find a perfect CD inside.  My friend, we shall call her Nemo’s friend Emo was more than happy to offer me the CD in a sly way to get rid of her husband’s questionable musical taste.  I excitedly popped the CD into my bag (along with two dresses, a book and a bracelet I’d also found in her stash!) and went along my merry way, vowing to download it onto my laptop and safely to my iPod before anyone would be any the wiser.

Needless to say I still have the CD and have found a home for it in the glove compartment of my car. I mean no one ever looks there, right?  Anyway, I was down in the homeland for the extended weekend and on my way back, dug out GB and popped him into the CD player.  I found a true love for “Friends in Low Places” and have even considered it as a song that will be played at my wedding (when am I getting married? No idea! But sure it pays to be prepared, right? Besides, if I get my plans all sorted, the fella can just slot in, yeah?). No! God! Not the first dance, noooo. You know, at the end when the band plays the last song, and everyone dances around the happy couple in a circle and they play some song like Sweet Caroline or You’ll Never Walk Alone or … yyesssss I’m thinking Friends in Low Places. Everyone knows at least 6 words, it’s a bit of a hooley song, you can just picture everyone linking and running back and forth in and out to me and m’husbind, smiling and roarin’ “IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII’ve got friends in looooow places, where the whisky drowns and the beer chases my bluuuuuuuuuuuuuuues awaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyy, And I’ll beeee ooooookkkkkkk” I think it’d be fantastic! Good for the young and old, Lord Jaysus! A real crowd pleaser!

So there I was on the M50 80 minutes into my drive, listening to Friends in Low Places for the 20^th time (it’s just under 4 minutes long), blaming it all on my youth that I’d shown up in boots, when I got a wobble!  Not the wobble that made me think “What the fuck are you thinking Nemo, Garth Effing Brooks? Have some class…” No, a wobble on the road, in the middle lane of the M50 on a Monday evening at 5.20pm and I was reminded of the true danger of guilty pleasures.  For many a year I’ve had a fear that I would have an accident, be thrown unconscious and my car radio would be blaring out (at the time) Jon Bon Jovi! THE SHAME!!  At the time I owned a purple Polo, so the shame of the purple Polo with SOMETHING FOR THE PAAAIIIINNN blaring from it would be just too much to bear.  Interesting that ten years ago my guilty pleasure would have been Bon Jovi in all his glory, guitar and all. (But after attending a concert of his last year with two very excited 17 year old girls, I’m thinking perhaps it had come full circle and he is rather cool right now. Answers on a post card.) But to lie on the M50, in a less garish coloured and styled VW, with Oooooohhh the red strokes, passions uncaged, thundering moments of tenderness raged… blaring is just a step too far.  Garth, you may be my guilty pleasure, I may still get tipsy on a couple of glasses of red wine and dance around my living room shouting “You’ll never hear me complaiiiiiinnnnn” but I’m sorry, your CD will most certainly have to be sold at my next car boot sale…and probably for about 50p

New Years Eve…another favourite of Nemo’s….NOT!!  This year I decided, like the last 5 years, to barricade myself in my apartment with all the chairs, the table and if I could disconnect the washing machine, that too, then open a really nice bottle of Bordeaux Superiere that I’d won at an accountants’ lunch that I attended on behalf of The Tank (believe me, a case of wine was the least they could offer me to endure 4 hours with not only accountants but tankers too – like what the f…),  order a take away, take down the barricading, pay for take away, reassemble the barricading, eat dinner, drink the wine, get slowly tipsy and fall into my bed around 11.30, waking the next day to 2013. 

This was my tried and tested formula for avoiding the NYE bullshit and it had served me well for 5 years, I politely declined the many “well if you’re doing nothing come and join me and Jim/Ken/Shane/Paul, we’re just sitting in too” invitations, I had my mind made up and if truth be known was quite looking forward to the full bottle of yum red all to myself. I was going to give up the booze for 31 days on New Year’s Day.

Anyway, I headed to The Tank for the day, avoided questions of “what you doing for NYE?” and agreed to meet with of my tanker friends for a drink before she headed off to dinner with “he who shall not be named” (her new felleh) and his mates.  At 8pm we headed to the local and shared stories of parents on Prozac for Christmas, sniping siblings, failing Skype, Downton Abbey and lovely Christmases all the same. On drink 3, my tanker friend, we’ll call her Dora, got a call from “he who shall not be named” to see where she was and I could hear her utter the dreaded words “Yeah OK I’ll ask her”…I knew what was coming “Nemo, he said if you want to come along? Nemo please come along, I know no one except yer man (he who shall not be named) and he only knows about 8 other people, please come along”… No Dora, no, thanks but I am going to back to the apartment, erect my barricade and get quietly pissed alone (that does sound tragic)…OK I won’t put pressure on you but (cue tears) I’d really appreciate if you would come along (more tears)”…I’ve always been a sucker for tears … after much toing and froing it was “Fuck ya Dora, I’ll come, but I’m only doing this for you, now get on the phone and suss out if he was being polite or if it’ll be cool if I can come along.”  At this stage I’ve had three quart bottles of wine, a cheese sandwich, a bowl of soup and 2 slices of toast – all day!  I’m confident I can do this. I can go to dinner with Dora and “he who shall not be named” and 30 OTHER people I don’t know. I’m Nemo, I’ll pretend I’m acting in a really low budget film about New Year’s Eve and sure if I play my cards right I’ll get seated with one person to one side and one in front and when it comes to midnight I can pretend the chow mein is going through me and run to the toilets shouting “Bum vomit bum vomit. Happy New Year!”

So we arrived in, well we shall call it Brumbun, Ireland’s premium retail and leisure centre and I already thought “Fuck this was a mistake, I should have just gone home…” but I was there and I just had to go with it.  And it was actually very easy, fun, enjoyable and the wine was really, really tasty – and plentiful.  I got introduced to everyone, as did Dora, and I was glad to see she hadn’t lied to me, she did actually know about two other people apart from “he who shall not be named”. 

The night went as one might expect, a lot of topping up of wine, to mask the fact we probably had little to say to each other outside of the safety of a drunken state.  I was sitting beside a very nice, but exceedingly boring, gentleman who clearly had one great experience in his life – living in Oz – and he proceeded to tell me, in detail, about how great it was to wake up in the heat and run on the beach. Even fuelled with red wine, I managed to stop myself from saying “Yeah but you live in Ireland now”… And then there were the two guys who sat further up the table, who came down to see the specimen that was brought as Dora’s friend. I should start this by saying I really don’t remember a lot of this, but what I do remember is gasps of surprise when they found I came from the other side of the M50 and so became known as Nemo from <<fill in said midlands county name>>. Some of them had never heard of the county, seriously guys there are only 26 on the country, it’s not that difficult to be aware of the name, others didn’t understand the concept of “another county” and others just failed to realise that people really did live outside of the M50 circle.  There was one gentleman from outside Ireland (that they could understand!) - Scott the Scot. He was very friendly and even said he knew someone from the town I’m from.  I was grateful of his chattiness and friendliness as Dora and “he who shall not be named” had gone for a ciggie and while I bravely waved them on, I was glad even through my drunkenness, that someone came to talk to me. So Scott the Scot and I chatted and joked. When he’d been initially referred to it was as Scott-Denise. Now, in my drunken innocence I initially thought it was his name (I had about 6 red wines at this stage), but soon I discovered that Denise was his wife’s name…and sooner again it became very clear why he was known as Scott-Denise.  

Denise wrapped up in one neat little, narrow waisted package everything that is a stereotypical SoCoDu girl - pretty, brunette (surprisingly), slim, married at an appropriate age, spending NYE with “all her friends”, domineering, snooty, rude and a bitch. I can honestly say this because I witnessed her say “Who’s that wine for (um, us!)?  I didn’t order more wine. That’s €23 a bottle. (Turns to waiter) Cut the wine, no more, cut it”… Now you might think that in an environment where only one other person actually knew me, that I would keep this to myself…nooooo, I turned to our little, but very loud group at the end of the table, and relayed the story, many times!  I even suggested we get another bottle, or round up a few Euro each and throw it into the kitty for the “extra” wine. (Might I add while I was roaring this, that Scott of Scott-Denise was still sitting right beside me as I annihilated his wife!!)  Finally Denise roared €60 each down our end of the table and I’m assuming roared something similar like “€50 each” down the other end. I decided in my drunken bravery that I was gonna be the eejit who would walk up to her and give her the money. And so I stumbled up and staggered over and, as Denise put her hand out and continued talking to someone else, I started to count out the money as I slurred “This is for me Nemo, Dora and “he who shall not be named”… 20…40…90…110…130…180”  The absolute weapon never even looked at me as I counted it out and continued to talk to someone on the other side. Never before have I met someone as rude and arrogant as was she.  If she treats her husband with even a fraction of the attitude, arrogance, domineering and controlling ways she did the frigging bill for the night well then I can understand why they don’t have their own names but are collectively referred to as Scott-Denise!

I knew I’d had a good night when, the next day, I replied to Dora’s text and asked did she and “he who shall not be named” stay much longer…and I got a reply “We dropped you home Nemo” and that’s when the balloon fight and being warned by the taxi driver came back to me…in the words of ‘the young’ you know you’ve had a good night when you can’t really remember getting home!  New Year’s Eve this year was nice – it was fun, it was drunk and forgetting how I got home made me feel younger than I have in quite some time. Thanks Dora…and “he who shall not be named”

I was deleting emails today and found an entry I'd done when Sleazy PT (Remember? The one I was using before Super PT?) was honing his skills on me... Oh how things have changed, how I've grown up! Anyway, hope you enjoy it and some of you may even recognise yourself or SleazyPT

My 5 things you need to know about Personal Trainers....enjoy!

1. Thinking of Training?

You might be completely new to the world of exercise and have no clue what you're doing at the gym. You might be in a rut of not seeing any results. Or you may be bored, in a rut and realise the most stable male relationship you've had in a while is the one you have with the local barman or cook in the chipper. Personal trainers will tailor a workout to fit your needs and tell you that they’ll help you achieve your goals. If you have a tough time motivating yourself to get to the gym or get a good workout in once you're there, look no further. For the first six months, your trainer will push you to break through all of your comfort zones, helping you get stronger along the way. After the 'honeymoon period' you may find that very same trainer a deterrent to attending the gym. We advise working on this by using our following four tips when looking for a trainer.

2. Get Fit with a Trainer Who Fits You

Look for strong credentials when choosing a personal trainer - strong arms, great abs, toned torso. Trainers might specialise in something like sports enhancement or rehabilitation after an injury. Others are likely to have a PhD in mind fuckage. Ask a trainer about his experience and what his passion is (?!) to find someone that fits your needs as closely as possible. Meet with him in person and see if there's any way you can observe him working out himself to ensure his claimed (and afore mentioned) credentials and specialism hold true. Stick with the trainer that you feel comfortable with and really connect with, even when your brain is saying MOOOVVVVEEE ON, your scales is saying FATIGUED and particularly when you spend most of your time questioning this connection and admiring his skill of mind fuckage.

3. The Price You Pay for Personal Training

Personal trainers can cost you a pretty penny. There are ways to reduce the cost of personal training, such as purchasing package deals with a trainer who works at a gym or teaming up with a fitness buddy and sharing a trainer. A good alternative is to strike up an inappropriate relationship with your personal trainer and you are likely to get a lot more training than you bargained for. A good trainer will be able to motivate two people at once without taking away from the effectiveness of your workout. Keep in mind that this may be harsh and send your female mind into overdrive as to who is the real winner, who is paying with money and who with dignity.

4. Put on a Brave Face

There's no need to be nervous as you head off to your first session with your personal trainer. You probably won't sweat much at your first session, as you won't exert yourself too much in front of this Adonis who "fits you" (see point 2)! The first thing you'll do together is discuss your goals. Be conscious of double entendres and suggestions of expanding your goals and your mind! Your trainer will weigh and measure you and go over some basic nutrition. This is where it's important to fit with your trainer as severe lack of dignity may be experienced. Alternatively these sessions can take a different approach and while he will be very intimate with your body fat, you on the other hand will just be very, very aware of it. If he has not already shown you, your personal trainer will then show you how to warm up. Ask questions to help you get more comfortable with both your trainer and the workout you're being asked to do. These are best asked at the end of the session and stick to professional questions. Questions on performance or of a more emotional nature can lead to a discomfort for both you and your trainer

5. Learn to Love Your Trainer

Many websites suggest communicating openly with your trainer so that he can meet your needs. We advise against this and experience has shown us that emotional retardation and lack of communication is the best way to conduct any type of relationship with your personal trainer. Remember that you're paying him to work for you and ensure that you spend a lot of time grappling with your conscience on this one. Follow his suggestions for the best results and learn to never trust him. A good trainer is always looking out for his best interests. He'll play many different roles in your journey together; he'll be your coach, a mentor, an object of affection, an object of passion, a fling, but most of all never your (boy)friend. Nobody is less excited for your progress than your trainer, who will never put in as much blood, sweat and tears as you have to reach your goals

Earlier on in the year I think I mentioned that I came close to an encounter with the law… I was at home last  Sunday morning, radio on, listening to The Sunday Business Show when I heard them talk of driving licences…and I went “FUCK!”  My licence had expired on the 12^th of December!  That’s nearly a month of driving around with no licence and therefore probably no car insurance.  Ironically, for once, I had fully up-to-date car tax.  Now, I’m not the best with my car. I went through a three year period where I had no car tax and had been fined not once, not twice, but three times, I left it two years before getting my last car serviced, at which the mechanic said “I have never seen an air filter like the one I took from your car”, my tyres are as close to the legal limit as is possible without being legal, the NCT expired five months ago and I’ve been putting off getting it done until such time as I replace the close-to-limit tyres. However I always, ALWAYS have up to date insurance and a valid driving licence…um except for this time and ten years ago when I realised three weeks after the fact that it had, indeed, expired. Now I hasten to add that as soon as I did, I downed keys and did not drive the car until this was fully rectified!!

The next day I logged on to rsa.ie thinking I could either apply online or download the forms…not so!  One must go to local library or Garda station and pick up a form in person.  So off I trotted to Pearse St. Garda station to embark on the licence renewal journey, so to speak.  “Hello officer, could I get a driving licence renewal form?”  “Is it a driving test form?”  “Um no officer, a driving licence RENEWAL form”… *goes in the back office to see if they have any*  “We don’t have any, sorry” “OK, thank you officer”… Dang!  I had noticed online that there are new driving licence cards being issued from the 19^th of January, so perhaps that’s why the forms are in such low supply. I phoned my local library but they said they had no forms, they had been destroyed in preparation for the new online application. In order to get a form I would have to go to the motor tax office.  There are two motor tax offices in Dublin – Smithfield and Clondalkin – open 9.30-3.30, Monday to Friday. Fan-frigging-tastic!  OK I’ll try one more Garda station, my local one, maybe they’ll have one or two hanging around there. 

So late that Monday evening, I trudged up to Donnybrook Garda station and knocked on the big heavy doors on Morehampton Road. The lights were on, but it seemed no one was home. Come on, it’s a cop shop, it has to be open right?  OK so it’s a cop shop in Dublin city, it has to be open. I banged the door again very loudly and then had a thought “Oh! This is not the actual front door, well it is the front door, but you don’t use it”…kind of like many houses down the country. This is the front door, but it’s never used! (I never did understand that. If you have a front door, why the hell wouldn’t you use it?!  If you don’t want people going in the front, well then don’t have a door there for Christ’s sake! This has probably come from my own upbringing when any man, woman, dog or child could use our front door. If you came to the back you would probably not even be noticed)…Anyway, I finally found the side entrance and headed in, about my business.

There were forms for driving tests, for resitting driving tests, for passports, for motor tax (they have forms for that?!)…but none on display for renewing driving licences, so I rang the bell signed “Ring for assistance” and out came a young f’lla of about 29 years of age. 

Nemo:             Hello officer, I’m wondering if you have any driving licence renewal forms?

Guard:             Is it a dhrivin’ test for-um yi’re lookin’ for?

Nemo:             Um no officer, a driving licence RENEWAL form

Guard:             Eh, are thir none there? Oh no, listen sure there’sh a new licence now comin’ out on 19^th of January. They’ve taken all the for-ums away from us. Ya have to go the mothor tax awfice.

Nemo:             Oh no, not the motor tax office, officer. I work in Dublin 4 from 8-5, I’ll never get to Smithfield or Clondalkin to get a form.

Guard:             Meh-be they’ll send wan out ta ya.  Here, why don’t I wait for the new licence on 19^thJanuary, sure what are we now, the 7^th?

Nemo:             But officer I have no licence at the moment, it’s expired since *lower voice and speak through side of mouth* 12^th December

Guard:             Ah sure when’s the last time you were stopped by a gy-uard?

Nemo:             *Chuckle to self* But officer that’s hardly the point, while concerned about being stopped by a guard, what about my insurance?

Guard:             Sure that’s only a small thing, if I were you I’d hang on til the new wans come out an’ git wan a doze. Sure yi’ll be stuck with the paper wan for 10 yearsh then, ya can only get a new wan if you lose the old wan.

Nemo:             OMG officer, can I record this??

Guard:             *guffaws loudly* Fire ahead! Ah now, ya picked the wrong wan to ask about this stuff, I’m fierce relaxed about it all, but ya know a thraffic gy-uard might have a different view. Tell ya what phone the mothor tax office in the marnin’ and ask dem will they give ya wan a the new ones, they might!

Nemo:             Oh OK officer!  Well thanks for your time, I’ll phone them….

Guard:             G’luck, g’luck!

I – shit – you – not!

Well hello there follower(s)...again I do believe I have one, perhaps two readers/followers but even so I love you, just the one/two of you! Anyway one way or the other I do apologise to you that I've been off the radar for so long. You see it has been a tough couple of months for me (this is where I get all serious). Nothing too major or dramatic or exciting or even scandalous, just found life a bit tough, hard to trudge through the days, hard to find a purpose, felt like was one of those merry-go-rounds that had to be pushed, except no one pushed it cos the playground was deserted. "Eh, join the club Nemo" I hear y'all say and yes you could be right, but you know this was something new for me, not being able to muster up the energy to be positive or funny or self deprecating or sarcastic or plain old schneery about The Tank and life, so I just said best that I hold off until maybe it lifted...

....Aaaaaaand I'm back! Lord Jaysus as they say, but thank God for "the New Year"...it really does bring with it hope, positivity, optimism and the general sense of resetting the clock to zero, forgetting the shite from the year gone by and embracing the new one with gusto...and indeed no where more than The Tank.

...But before I go into all that, let's talk about Christmas, New Year and resolutions. Christmas was a very nice affair chez Mom and Dad Nemo this year. Now it may come as a surprise to you that, well, Nemo n'aime pas la Noel...pas de tout en fait. That one day manages to compound all the feelings of failure, disappointment, resentment, regret and solitude into one 24 hour period. However this year I decided no! No, no, this year Nemo you will embrace the festive season, go to the Christmas parties, engage in the family games of charades, ho ho ho your way through Driving Home for Christmas, smile at your Prozac-induced parents like you're on the dhrug yourself, let the sniping go, top self up with gin from 11am right through and leave at the appropriate time back to your perceived haven that is your cold, lonely, rented apartment in the big shmoke.

And so this year it came to be that I did have a really lovely Christmas. All the Nemo-ites were in the homestead, the parents seemed to have reduced their Prozac intake (a little!) and we all got on quite nicely. I even let it slide when the little brother sniped at me such that I blushed and had a tear in my eye. But when another sibling produced their first born for the period and I retired to my flat in the parents' with its single bed, there was no getting away from the fact that I was approaching my late 30s, sleeping in a single room, in a single bed, as a single 30 something in my parents' house for Christmas...with nowhere else to go and no one else to play with. I asked myself "Is this it? Will I be the crazy aunt who'll be in Granny and Grandad's every Christmas? The crazy one who sits in the sun-room with a glass of gin permanently in her hand? The one with the big job in The Tank? The one who "never lets us down" and "always comes home" for Christmas? The one who would have been a great mother if she'd been lucky enough to find the right man? And I decided there and then that no I would not be. Or God damn it if I am, I sure as hell will have one heck of a story to go with it.  So peeps, this time next year I will not be a single woman, in a single bed, in a single room in her parents’ house. No. This year I am getting myself a boyfriend.

Now I have no idea how I'm going to do this, no idea who he will be, no idea where I will find him, no idea what he'll look like or what he'll do, but clearly he will be just about pretty dang right! I am getting ma-self-a-boyfriend! Fuck, if it was that easy I'd have just said this long ago, right?! Well anyway, I’ll worry about tactics in quarter two, we’re working on strategy for Q1. And I'm taking the first step. So if you know of any nice guys out there "fishing" (fishing, Nemo, geddit??!?!) for a fun, fit (finally!), talented (subjective), hot (subjective) gal, then let me know cos this year I'm gettin' meself a felleh!

Jesus Christ I was on the edge today. Today verged on the worst day ever in The Fish Tank.  It started off fairly well with a marathon sleep, followed by a walk to work in the pissing rain, yet I was still relatively chirpy by the time I finally swam up to The Tank....and then it all went downhill. 

No one would answer phones, I have a welt on my index finger from hitting the answer button "Good morning Nemo speaking!"...so at 12.20pm today the 26th of September in the year 2012, Nemo went on strike. Now when I say on strike I decided (in my head) that from that point until feeding time at the zoo 1pm, I would not answer the phone unless all four other individuals on the desk had answered and there was, quite literally, no one else to answer the phone except me. I SHALL NOT BE MOOOOOOVED.

So, not being satisfied with my attempt at de stroike, I felt that people really needed to know how I felt today.  Therefore throughout the afternoon, I:
- told my boss that I wasn't really a sales person at all
- told one of Flipper's helpers that I was in denial that I worked in any kind of tank
- announced really loudly that a bit of me died inside today and soon there'd be nothing alive inside, all dead, just black, dead eyes
- mouthed to one of the lads on the desk in full view of half the tank "I-hate-my-job!"
- snapped all the split ends on the left side of my head
- muttered under my breath every 30-40 minutes "I can't cope"
- told a work colleague to tell a customer who had phoned for me that I had jumped out the window, but if she wanted to leave a message, they'd pass it on should I survive
- sent crazy emails to my work buddies which I'm sure they've held on to as evidence of my psychotic behaviour should I lose the plot entirely
- downed tools at Levi Time(5.01 wha' wha'!) and ran out the door so fast I'd swear my feet did not touch the ground (and I'm not being cliched in saying that)

I'm wondering should I bother going in tomorrow at all!