It matters not because I am just disgruntled at the moment and can't even summon up the enthusiasm for a proper bad mood or be in a temper. If I were 30 years younger I'd be putting Leonard Cohen on the record player and whining that it's not fair. I'd probably write a poem into my lockable five-year-diary too. Something about there being no point in anyfink.
I really can't be arsed to do anything much – well, anything, really. I have three hours to kill before I have to appear at some poxy school to look at the library which has taught me that in future I need to clarify clocks and time and that just because the words 'open' and 'day' are used together doesn't actually mean that it's in the day time. So, I'm going to be spending 2 hours of my Friday evening going 'mm, sehr interessant, sehr interessant' while wondering how soon I can shove off.
And the woman in the queue at the supermarket needs to learn quite a lot about personal space.