Long story short, there's been this deadline that's been kicking the collective arse this week and even though I've been nursing a potentially lethal cold this week, I powered through it, earning the everlasting gratitude of my assorted bosses.
This afternoon I come back from lunch to find the exact work I'd left completed Wednesday evening back in front of me.
"What is this?" I asked, half expecting some kind of Beadle's About moment.
"You remember those 800 spelling mistakes I said weren't our problem?" The guv replied, "Turns out they are."
I didn't have time for an anger break or a stress embolism. Two days work needed be redone, packed up and put in the back of a courier's van during the course of one afternoon.
I looked the workbeast in the eye. It winked at me. "You look like a fuckin' faggot, kid," it sneered. "Why don't you call a real man to come and do this?"
I got into the first stance of the Toshiguro Saigo Nine Hands Cutting style.
"Let's do the man dance!"
Some hours later, bloodied but unbowed, Stealthy, your hero, emerged victorious, the beast safely secured in the back of the aforementioned courier van.
As we watched the vehicle drive off, a look at silent understanding passed between the guv and myself. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small envolope.
That envelope contained £50. Which is quite nice, especially seeing as the government have for some reason decided to take £50 more tax from me this month than they have in previous months.
But that is another thread.