The day takes on a gloomy tint when, at 8.30am, you sit staring in confusion, trying desperately not to be outfoxed by the new holepunch.
How, in God’s name, is it possible to be outdone by a holepunch?
I walk, I talk. It punches holes. I work, I write. It punches holes. And yet, AND YET, it’s sitting there, on the desk, staring at me with its big, pokey, mocking, reverse eyes that it uses to punch the damn holes. Or not to punch the damn holes, depending.
Surely the day can only get better.