Erupting temper

I want to go on holiday. I don't think that is unreasonable. It's been almost a year since I was abroad last, and even that was a long weekend rather than a proper long break. It's been nearly eighteen months since my last "proper" break.

So, excitingly, the holiday is booked. The hotel is waiting. Monty Cat-sitter has been booked. The passport has been renewed with the world's dodgiest photo. This week is my last week at work. I have bought an unfeasibly large amount of suncream and several tops from Primark which will undoubtedly fall apart as soon as I put them on. That's what holidays are for.

Except, the cloud of ashy doom is threatening and as I type this, all UK flights are cancelled. We all thought it had gone away but oh no. It sensed Laura wanted a holiday, and is deliberately spiting me. Now, I don't know about you, Ploggers, but I hate to be intimidated by a volcano that appears to be named by someone leaning too heavily on the middle row of the keyboard. Efullfallajjkfdid or something.

Volcanologist: What shall we call the latest volcano?

Junior Volcanologist: Etna? That's a good name.

Volcanologist: Nah - we've already got an Etna I think.

Junior Volcanologist: What about Edna? My gran was called Edna.

Volcanologist: I don't think so.

Junior Volcanologist: What's wrong with the name Edna? She was a lovely lady!

Volcanologist: I'm sure she was, but, really, for fuck's sake! (Leans heavily on middle row of keyboard) Bollocks. I've just typed 'Eyjafjallajoekull'. Fuck it, I can't be arsed to find the delete key. That'll have to do. I'm bored now. I'm going home. Why did I choose this stupid career? I could have been an accountant you know.