My calendar says it's Thursday. My diary says it's Thursday. The newspaper would seem to confirm it and so did Peter Levy on the six o'clock news. So why has everyone else I have been in contact with today behaved as if it were Friday the Frigging Thirteenth?

First of all I get a secretary in an extreme state of distress apparently over the training for the new IT system. I know the real and very personal reason for her emotional state but am sworn to secrecy and cannot appear too sympathetic lest the others notice and wonder at the sudden softening of my salty knickers bitch troll personality.

Then a colleague calls, equally distressed and between sobs I discover that another bitchtroll, much more experienced and convincing than I could even aspire to, had reduced her to a quivering wreck. That sorted I get clients who hadn't noticed they would be slightly short on their purchase price - by about 10 Grand! Few deftly placed calls and a lot of musac-enduring later and they leave happy and reassured if a little worse off every month.

That's when it really starts to go crazy. Chaos at the rugby club. Rumours start flying about, hypotheses forming. We are apparently without coaches or a manager. A crisis meeting is called. Jack goes, incredibly anxious, and returns even more so having been told almost nothing. I meanwhile, speak to a couple of people, including said manager and one of the coaches and the culmination is that my weekend of welly-wearing in North Yorkshire is to be cancelled so I can represent the UN at the Peace Talks on Sunday morning. A seemingly selfless act until you factor in my vested interest in keeping my son and his team in existence.

And I'd ironed my combat trousers, dusted off my wellies and defuzzed my bobble hat especially. Oh well! Chopping down trees will have to wait for another weekend. We have mountains to move and that's before we even think about getting people to shift their perspectives.