Short fuse

Not my most edifying day. I'm tired and unwell but in work to conform to the corporate policy "if you ain't dead you should be in work, unless you are dead in which case you might be able to have time off for the funeral." Beryl's similarly unwell: absolutely chock full of a cold and rattling like Rafferty's coal van.

I'm replacing the equipment we moved out of the way for the new bog at Senebene. All goes well up to the point where a rather harassed Beryl tries to put somebody onto PC number 3.

"I'm trying to put George onto PC number 3 and nothing's happening."

"That gentleman's already on PC number 3."

"No, that one's number 3."

"That's number 5."

"It's number 3."

"It's number 5. It was number 5 when it was over in that corner and you've just watched me move it over there. Why would it suddenly become number 3?"

"Well, it should be number 5. This is just going to confuse everybody."

Instead of both of us leaving this silliness alone and coming back to it later we both gnaw at it like rats on a bone. In the end I lost my temper, which is entirely unprofessional and inexcusable. Losing it in a public place is definitely not on. Utterly, utterly stupid on my part. I'll have to try and patch things up with Beryl.