A to-do list akin to the length of Tiger Wood's marital indiscretions.
A motivation level as low as BP's recent attempts to salvage their reputation.
A mood as manic as a hypnotist's pendulum.
I depart the office at 19:54pm, barely able to contain my relief at escaping the glow of flourescent lights, aftertaste of cheap coffee and heinous train schedules. I am giddy from tiredness. Surprisingly nervous about finally ticking another box in my life's Dream List. (Italy, oh Italy. Cinque Terre - I can smell the salt in my hair, and the chianti on my breath, and the feel the beating heat on my arms now.)
Made the last train to Amsterdam. Caught the connecting tram home. Stopped at the Supermarket to pick up a salad for dinner.
And then - the final cherry on the sweet sweet cake of anticipation: A postcard in my mailbox.
It doesn't ever really matter what's written on the postcard - it's the sentiment of receiving one.
In my world, it could be blank, full of drunken ramblings, or sober stories of disaster and it would always say the same thing - "I thought of you while I was away."
And that's enough to turn my day from mediocre at best at 19.58pm, to one of the best days of the year at 20.54pm.
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