Day 179: Grassbusting

A sleepless night.  Courtesy of an email received at ten o'clock last night, requesting that in addition to today's full programme, can I also 'do some sort of half-hour warm-up' for SEVENTY cynical participants.  HALF-HOUR.  SEVENTY.  CYNICAL.  As I've been out for a birthday dinner, I am stupid with wine and chocolate sauce.  Go to bed and fidget sleeplessly, hot with stress, brain activity and sugar sweats.  Truly horrible.

I ain't 'fraid of no grass

The day happens.  I more than get away with it.  But it comes at a price.  By mid-afternoon there's almost nothing left in my tank.  During a coffee break I notice a groundsman blowing grass-cuttings around, looking just like a Ghostbuster.  (Grassbuster).  His task looks very Zen in its simplicity.  Grass on; grass off.  I envy him. 

By the time I get home I am catatonic and weeping with exhaustion.  Fighting sleep at nine o'clock in front of 'Crimewatch' - but it's a good reminder that however stressful my day has been, it doesn't come close to being tied up by a psychopath in a balaclava brandishing a machete.    

Time to sleep.  And dream of Grassbusting.