'I've got something for you to do today' says Ross cheerfully as I stomp into the office one morning.
'Ok, fine' I huff. Poor Club Testosterone have no idea that a hormonal, antagonistic monster, resembling me, has just walked in.
'I think a lot of Olympic ballot ticket winners haven't received their confirmation email because of spam filters. So, here's the template confirmation email. Please can you send it out to all the winners. You'll need to tailor it to the specific event, time and event code.'
Fantastic, I think, with around 4000 to email, this will take up some time. I can plug in my earphones and keep interaction to a minimum. This was just what I needed but Gmail - what our work email accounts are run off - seemed to have other ideas. After the first couple of emails which were sent out to several hundred people, a message started to appear, 'You've exceeded your email recipient amount.' I ploughed on nonetheless, ignoring the message like I generally do when a piece of technology tries to talk to me. It was as persistent in the messaging as I was stubborn in ignoring it.
'Guys, it's only letting me now only send ONE email at a time.' I fume from my desk after a while.
'Err, what do you mean?' Rob asks hesitantly, knowing my dislike for Gmail frequently causes grumpy outbursts.
'Well, I've been emailing the Olympic people to ask them to confirm that they can attend...'
'What' cuts in Ross 'but I haven't told you who to email.'
'What?! I thought you WANTED me to do this. So that's what I've been doing. As you asked. And NOW it's not even letting me email and it's saying it's going to suspend my account in some STUpid attempt to prevent spam emails.' My rage reaches new levels. 'It's going to take me a SODDING AGE to contact everyone.'
'Where did you get the names from?' asks Ross reasonably
'From the Olympic winners folder obviously.' I reply witheringly, then put my head in my hands feeling, ridiculously, on the verge of tears. This is the last thing I want. I know I'm being totally unreasonable and not really sure why but they cannot see me cry. 'Argh, this is just.. not a good day.......what did you...I thought you....I can't....I'm going to buy cigarettes.' I wail, standing up quickly trying to grab my bag, wallet and other detritus I apparently feel I'll need for my incredibly brief excursion. Accusingly I saying 'I'm just fucking up aren't I? Why did you tell me you wanted me to do this if you didn't?' I grab my coat and storm out. Or at least, I would have stormed out if the straps on my bag hadn't got caught on the door handle. The boys watch me as I attempt to untangle myself, shooting them 'if looks could kill' glares that seem to have the desired affect of keeping them silently. Finally, I flounce out of the door.
I push the door open sheepishly. 'I'm really sorry about that guys. Think you might need to put it down to...um, a female moment I guess.' They laugh. 'Don't worry' one says. They are wonderfully forgiving. Harmony is restored and the balance returns to normal.