Rage against the Machine...

I am in a cold rage.

I have taken a leaf out of Friends' book in order to defuse the ticking bomb of anger that festers deep inside me tonight. Although instead of having a big mocha/frapa/cappu/whackaccino and a slice of cheesecake, I am putting my faith in the healing powers of a large mixed shawarma and a bottle of rioja. Already the rich juices of the kebab are clogging my arteries and the wine (a £4.67 Berberena, on offer at half price) is working its tannin-inspired magic.

I could scarcely believe the intensity of my anger on the journey home. Unable to even look at my colleagues on the train, I felt a short but all-consuming desire to stand up and scream out loud, share with the entire carriage the frustration that has undoubtedly been building up like a monumental geyser about to pierce the earth's crust for the first time.

The eruption nearly came at Fulham Broadway as I read in the evening trashrag that is London Lite about the latest moronic antics of the current generation of sons-and-daughters-of-stars: Alfie Allen photographed stumbling out of Mahiki at 3am, his charm and class oozing as he hurled monosyllabic insults at the paparazzi. WHO GIVES A SHIT???

Yet Alfie Allen was a mere accelerant to the inferno that was already raging within me. The combustion agent that ignited the blaze was a combination of several highly volatile components:

- My boss checking into rehab for alcoholism for one month, having gone AWOL at the recent round of trade exhibitions, creating a car-crash atmosphere within the department.
- Said boss having one month previously cancelled a once-promised 3 month sabbatical period. I have now reassessed what I need to do to get one month off at my company.
- My assistant being diagnosed with M.E. and her primadonna antics as she struggled to come to terms with her illness, leading to my other assistant threatening to resign and forcing me to recruit a temp for three months, further slowing me down by requiring a back-to-basic training monotony.

I need to get out, I need to get away before I burn out or implode. Failing that, firing a few thousand rounds on an AK-47 right here, right now would probably do the trick. I yearn for excitement, and I want it now.

I do however know that the grand scheme of things is firmly in place. I am 23.3% (recurring) of the way there and look longingly at the world map every day as I head for the shower. Call it a cherry, a carrot, whatever you will (in my case a pint of Guinness would probably work better), I can truly think of nothing else in the world that could keep me focused and make this mundane routine even remotely bearable. No longer rudderless, I now amazingly find myself with more direction than I have ever had before. Bring on April 2009!

Wow, it is true. Transferring my anger and frustration into typewritten words has helped me return to a more level plane.

Either that or it is down to the kebab and red wine, you pick...