It was too nice this morning to go and sit in a church so we didn't. We bunked off and went to the shops instead.

But that precipatated a run of bad luck the likes of which I haven't known in a long while.

It started when I decided I had to change something and took my baby son off to Marks and Spencers. Who decided to suddenly change their 10am opening time to 10.30am. Then to 11am. With no word of warning. Because that wouldn't be disdain enough for the customers hanging about outside.

When I finally got in and made it up to Customer Services on the first floor, via some antiquated lift stolen from a fucking coal mine, the queue for Customer Services was twenty-deep. So I waited. And I waited. Behind a woman and her young daughter who revealed, after half an hour of cooing at my son, that she had chicken-pox. I couldn't believe it. I was going to punch the negligent mother in the face for trying to kill my baby.

My day continued to deteriorate when, on the way home, I caught my canvas trousers in a door and ripped the clasps off the back. I had to struggle to the car holding my pants up.

Nevertheless, I finally made it home and, taking a deep breath, decided to put it all behind me. That was before I walked straight into an overhead cupboard and split my head clean open.

I was so fucked off I momentarily pushed myself over the edge and back into complete equanimity. I guess it's rage's way of saying, 'Er... we've got nothing left in the thrusters, so... I'm afraid you're going to have to relax for a moment...' It's like some weird biological eye of a storm.

However, before the rage returned, I decided to retreat and spend the rest of the day playing with the baby. Who immediately decided to get sick on my shoulder. I took a deep breath and lifted him away from my shoulder before he promptly got sick again. In my split head.

Anyway, I'm going to be in the first pew next week. You hear that, God? You've won. I can't beat you. Just, please, call off the hounds...