Pestilence. Wrath. Botulism.
Crankiness, Shoulder-hunched slovenly idleness, Cold, angry wind blowing into reddened faces of despair.
It's no good. This year, on the internationally recognised Sexy Scale of rating, is so far proving to be a prone, bloated, semi-naked and listless Jim Davidson in a cheap satin bodice, lube in hand as he's sprawled rat-face down on a feculent crack-den mattress, gasping for breath as he gags on an old sock.
This time last year, by comparison, would've been Shilpa Shetty shampooing slowly in the shower.
Back then I had been at my new job for four months, and in my new flat for three. I had some time to bide, and a routine to enjoy. I bought myself a shiny new red bicycle. I started dieting. I knuckled down, paid off my debts, started swimming, and felt very very good.
But 12 months on and I've done the day job. I like it - and the boss and family I work for are very kind indeed - but I'm just going through the motions. I know what to do, so I wake up and do it. And in return, I get to pay the rent and bills, and buy processed food that I can't be bothered to bypass for fruit and veg.
Prior to my current job, I had always wondered what it would be like to work in Business and now I know; Hard.
And pretty much all your waking attention, even on weekends, if you want to be a success.
Except I'd rather write, and I don't think The Grauniad will give me my own column just yet, particularly what with not having a Journalism degree or any kind of talent or contacts. (Except a step-brother who is editor of a weekly British newspaper, oddly enough, but who I don't really speak to and who thinks I should validate my fucking way in life, dammit.)
I have a headache today. Or is it a migraine? I can't tell the difference. My head hurts, mainly from lack of sleep that is common for a Monday as I spent Sunday night avoiding bed (and the impending full week of work) by cunningly staying up as long as I could watching bad tv, thus squeezing out every last drip of weekend.
Result: Tonight, I was forced to miss Martial Arts as I was exhausted by evening's end and had yet to cycle home.
My legs were aching all day today, but I couldn't recall doing anything at the weekend that may have exacerbated that - Unless it was lifting Mum from bed to wheelchair. I turned up at her house late too, which meant she'd spent six horizontal hours waiting for me to arrive. And if that's not guilt-inducing enough, a few weeks ago, Mum had upgraded her computer and gave me her old one. When I took it back to my flat and realised it was the same spec as my current one, I opened it up and gave the motherboard a couple of hefty smacks until it ceased to work. I then left the machine outside where it was duly picked up and walked away with by a complete stranger.
Then, last Friday, a repairman came to fix a computer at work. I watched as he swapped the useless motherboard for a nice new one and got all the files and programs back again. I thought 'How clever.'
71 hours later, I was still thinking 'How clever.'
It has taken me exactly 72 hours to form the thought (i.e. dawned on me just this second) that all I did a couple of weeks ago was to break my Mum's motherboard (ironic) then allow her computer to be stolen. The hard drive - I now realise - I left intact. The Hard Drive. The fucking storage where all the programs and files and everything personal goes. I am pretty confident that Mum left a lot of Very Important Details on that machine. Lots of addresses, bank details, PIN numbers, that kind of thing.
Why did I do that? Why did I a) barely bother to wipe the machine clean after b) deciding that the computer was pretty worthless and beyond my walking all eight tons of it to a charity shop?
Question is, has the person who took the computer repaired it and got at that information? And if they have, are they going to wipe that information off and re-use the computer? Or use or sell Mum's bank details? And if that's a strong possibility, do I tell a 66-year-old disabled woman currently convalescing from a fall that resulted in breaking her ankle in two places four days ago that she might like to get on the phone and call her bank and four billion credit card companies because I may have inadvertantly...