Tuesday terrors

God, my birthday happiness has disappeared quicker than a fat girls promise to diet. Work woes have enveloped me tighter than a pair of size 12 leggings on a fat girl and my enthusiasm for management is now at the level of a fat girls enthusiasm for salad. Why have I just used fat girls three times in an opening salvo? I don’t know, but please don’t take offence and please don’t complain. I’m very tired and I’m very stressed and I’m therefore typing stuff that I’d normally reject in my mind before it got anywhere near a keyboard. 
Chaos reigns supreme on the forecourt. We have the cheapest available builders trying to do a job that should have involved closing the garage for a fortnight. But Those Above Me insist on staying open so we don’t lose a few quid while the work is done, so we’ve got guys in hardhats wandering around in between delivery drivers and customers, most of whom are complaining that they’re unprotected and endangered. Anyone would think we were filling their cars with plutonium and forcing them to inhale asbestos. Whingeing bastards. 
I’m told “It’ll all be worth it when it’s finished” but as things stand I have no office, we only have one till, half our stock is in boxes, there’s brick dust all over the produce and every single encounter with a member of the public starts with a ‘huff’ or a ‘tut.’
I might try and sneak a little addition onto the plans when the builders aren’t looking, because if I don’t come out of this with at least a foot spa I’m going to be angry for life. 

RC 24-1-17