I skillfully avoided the dog turd on my way to the Co-op at the end of my road. I saw it there, glistening in the gentle gloom of the streetlamp and hopped over it. I congratulated myself on my turd-avoidance as I entered the store and grabbed the part-baked baguettes, which would accompany our home-made soup later that evening.

As I returned home, my mind wandered off to contemplate what had been a chaotic return to work after the Christmas break.

With the PA off sick for the entire period, I had been doing several jobs: supporting the Managing Director of [prestigious British brand, now owned by Americans] - which is a full time job in itself - on top of my usual job of supporting the Marketing Director, the Director of [other related company], the entire Marketing department and trying to sort out a new-starter.

I had been arriving home brain-dead and tearful, frazzled and frustrated from attending to everyone else's needs all day while mine had been left dangling and neglected. I had been snapping at Big, failing to drag myself to the pool and unable to summon up the energy to cook decent meals at night.

On top of this, I had been waiting to hear about the job for which I'd interviewed before Christmas. I'd been told verbally that I would be offered the job, but after the last job-related débacle, I wouldn't be happy until I received a piece of paper with my name, the company name and a dotted line for me to adorn with my signature.

As these thoughts swirled around my brain, I was vaguely aware of a squelching underfoot.

The glistening turd, which I'd so carefully avoided on my way to the shop, was now embellishing the sole of my shoe. A heavily cleated sole at that.

I rolled my eyes, took a deep breath and stomped home, stopping only to remove the shoes and leave them rather unceremoniously on the doorstep before entering the house. I would deal with them later. Much later.

It had been one of those days...