The cupboard of dreams, the key of nightmares

In case you hadn't noticed, today is Monday and on a Monday we tend to write a blog about the fact that it's Monday.

When I came into the office this morning the bossman asked how my weekend was, 'truthfully, it was great' I replied, 'I'm actually suffering a bit from the post-weekend blues'. 'Oh brilliant' he shot back 'why don't you wander around the office and talk about how depressed you are.' I'm going to go one further - I'm going to tell our blog readers!

Things haven't exactly gone swimmingly today people. It all started on Friday when someone lost the stationery cupboard key. (That's stationery, not stationary as I was reminded more than once thanks to a couple of hastily written emails).

In the stationery cupboard you will find things like pens, printer cartridges, paper and pretty much everything necessary for a business to function.

So you see my quandry. And it is my quandry, for I was charged with being the key bearer.

We were forced to have a 'key bearer' thanks to what can only be described as collective irresponsibility. We at Biteback Media suffer the same affliction in the washing up department (note: there isn't an actual department... yet).

After spending Friday turning the office upside-down and most (not all) of my weekend with that niggling suspicion that I've been completely negligent and would return on Monday to find the key to the cupboard of dreams floating in some half-drunk cup of now stagnant coffee - I now know, it's gone forever. There's no explanation now and there never will be because we're at that stage when even if someone does find it in their pocket, they'll never tell a soul. Well, maybe a kindred one.

Now it's Monday and I spent much of my day getting quotes from locksmiths - all of whom specifically set out to ruin my day and rip me off (part of the job I suspect) and arranging the call-out.

The locksmith arrived, drilled a hole in the door, made a bit of a mess and 4 minutes later asked me for one-hundred and twenty quid. Interesting, I thought - 'The courtly fellow on the blower quoted me £65!' I exclaimed. What followed was one of those awkward moments when you fall witness to an angry telephone conversation between two people in a language you don't understand and all you can do is smile, innocently.

Needless-to-say I lost this battle, I afterall, am about 5'3'' and my foe had a tool box. But not before I'd had my ear chewed off and spat back at me by that courtly fellow I mentioned earlier on the telephone.

So today has been RUBBISH, could've been worse of course, I could be Nick Clegg.