That's what I've got right now. Little Things have all joined ranks and have picked on me today. And I am in need of soothing.
First, my Christmas mug. The first new one I have had for donkey's years. A present. Mine. For me. My very own. My precious. And within days it has got a bloddy great chip in it. And not just anywhere, but right at the most inconvenient, lip-snagging place. Why that one, I asked. I've got a dozen aged, rank, discoloured chip-less mugs that anyone can use in the cupboard. But my mug is the one to get it. That ruined my breakfast, I can tell you.
Then along came Polly. Polly is like her name suggests; small, ladylike, dainty - but with a steely determination that belies her imbecilic appearance. Polly doesn't count as a dog with Dog; Dog doesn't register on Polly's radar. Mutual ignoring each other is the norm. But they are sisters under the skin: they both hate getting their feet wet. And since both their owners are as soft as butter and even more imbecilic than Polly's expression, they are allowed the benefit of the extension lead to avoid puddles. So their paths cross. Criss-cross even. I'd like to think that Polly's owner is as irritated as me from the ensuing dis-entanglement - but I doubt it.
Then along came my mug again. I don't know what I've done to irritate it - unless it hoped for a more upmarket owner. But, somehow, it managed to throw itself at my keyboard cord, bounce off and throw more coffee than the contents of a BP tanker over the printer.
Then a rumour reached us. The lining of our allotment shed had been blown away and was threatening to suffocate some prize-winning dahlias. I accompanied the OH to avert World War III and prepared to hold a ladder and hand out galvanised nails. Naturally my help was scorned, so I spent a freezing hour trying to reposition the dead stick flattened by the OH's boot that represented our neighbour's dream of a fruit glut. Then tried a bit of weeding, but came under fire from an earth bombardment from a pesky bit of couch grass root. I came home looking as if I'd spent an hour at Glastonbury Festival.
So that's been by irritable day - sandwiched around a heavy workload that has centred on the two most irritating things in the universe from the point of view of a woman in need of a glass or two of red wine: estate agents and solicitors. It is just fortunate I didn't meet the local traffic warden. For then my mug really would have overfloweth.
la_spice
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I do feel bad if I don't want to read or comment though as it is the interaction with others that makes blog worth doing and helps to build the "community" feel on here. The thing about blog is that a lot of people write for pleasure or to relieve boredom or because they want help with something, but some do it as a distraction from the bad stuff in their lives, sometimes it is hard to tell someone's mood from their writing because while some write tremendous outpourings of grief on a regular basis, others they may tell a joke or a funny tale to cheer themselves up. For them the worst thing I can imagine would be to write a post because they were genuinely distressed and for no-one to see it and respond to it. On Tuesday I didn't even want to read or comment either for some reason, not quite sure why, just a general negativity I think. But I still felt as if I was letting the community down d'ya see. 
There there - here's a large glass of red!