I don't like Mondays.

It's bad enough that suffering from insomnia means that facing a Monday morning is exponetially more difficult than usual.

That I've seen the turning of every hour of the previous night on my illuminated clock.

It's bad enough that I get out of bed without an ounce of ability to decide what to wear to work.

And it's pretty rough still that I have to fit a weeks work into one day because of an away day and (on the upside) a holiday.

All of the above is tough going.

But as I clamber onto the top deck of the 98 with my yoga kit and someone is sitting smugly in my favourite seat I like to think that, unusally, even though I'm in a pretty big funk by now, I'm taking all of this in my stride.

At least I was.

Because the worst thing is ahead of me...

...the worst thing of all is the fact that as I manage to get to the back of the top deck and find a seat, I have the misfortune to be sitting next to a FUCK-NOSED, TIT-FACED, BASTARDING WANKER of MOTHERFUNSTERING proportions. A slight-bodied DINKUS, who at all of 5foot11 and ooh about 12 stone thinks he needs to spread his legs akimbo and take up all of his seat AND two thirds of my seat while I'm sitting on it.

Come on you fuckstick, you're not that big and you're certainly not cool.

Now Sweet Jesus someone get me to an anger management counseller before I beat this man with my new handbag.

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