Silence is golden

It has been 1 month now since we made the move out of our flat.

During that time I can't think of a time that I was actually alone for any duration, other than my 25 minute run along by the river every day (yes, the extra five minutes made such a regular appearance, due to a physical magnetism repelling me away from my work, that it is now a permanent feature and I would feel all the more smug for it if my fat ring wasn't remaining wholly ignorant of this daily 5 minutes extra of rigorous (ahem) exercise that I am enduring in order to shift its cumbersome presence and if I had actually been doing more than 20 minutes a day prior to this addition, which probably is burning about as many calories as it takes to ingest a stick of celery).

Up until now, I have coped with this dramatic change in personal time and space.

But this morning, sat in my office surrounded by people whittering away to one another about work related activities (goddamn them trying to conduct their business in anything other than keystrokes), I nearly lost it.

I am, for want of a more attractive description of myself, not very good around people.

I am not a social creature, or at least not for prolonged periods of time, which explains why I chose a career where the only things I had to regularly converse with were a mouse and a keyboard, which are thankfully committed to lifetimes of silences and do not get offended by my frequent bouts of offensive expletives and regular strops, or if they do they don't complain about it, so I am happy in my ignorance of the suffering they endure at the hands, literally, of their WebStress.

It is also merely one of the vast oasis of factors that have led me to avoid utilising AOL's ISP facilities, as I don't appreciate my PC telling me that I have email in an unnervingly Joanna Lumley-esque voice (although I am surprised that my dad chose Tiscali over AOL for precisely this reason).

My work colleagues, in the past, have seen inflections of my temper, hints at my unstable nature, and other various nastinesses hidden in the nuances of my personality.

Largely, my anger usually subsides quickly, once I have vented to my project manager or anyone will listen (I haven't yet utilised the listening facilities of our security guard but I'm not beyond doing that, its good to have someone in reserve for when all my other resources have been exhausted, even if I will have to shout through my issues as he's getting on a bit and is a little deaf).

Upset takes a little longer, usually involving the employment of a friend or my sister via msn but still with near enough the same effects, as my sister in particular has managed to cultivate any tears into anger, motivation and productivity instead.

But my bad moods, they're a different story. I am aware that when I am in a bad mood, I omit an air of Black Death around me. Woe betide anyone who tries to break through my sullen aura, in need of help, or a response on a brief, or anything other than to offer me a cup of tea (and even that sometimes isn't treated with the curtiousy it should be).

I am aware, as my response comes hurtling across my tongue and expelled into the air, that I am not sounding particularly approachable, or lovely in anyway.

My poor junior, I am sorry to say, has been the unwitting receiver of a few accidental curt words, when I was interrupted from my private sulk that only the PC was privvy to up until that point.
In my defense, after my answer was completed and was left hanging in the air like an unpleasant bodily expulsion, leaving an altogether not wonderfully nice atmosphere, I did try to redeem myself by being overly nice and helpful (which is probably enough to put anyone who is receiving my advice wholly on edge).

Relating to a previous blog on my inability to be honest to the relevant people when I am upset or angry with them, it is rare that the hapless receiver of my temper has in any way triggered, or deserves, the response they are given.

But it isn't something I can really control, without having preparation time which, I find, can curb my emotion laden voice somewhat and, given space, can produce some reasonably pleasing sentence constructions and a fairly inoffensive tone.

And the affects can be lasting. My old flatmate has not forgotten the time when she asked how my day was and was literally, I am embarrassed to say, shouted into the corner by a string of expletives.

It had not been good.

Luckily, she has learnt to accept another of my foibles and finds it now quite funny.

This is probably because, once in a bad mood, I am more like an angry, aggressive little furby than a ferocious, fearsome lioness, which would probably be better put in the biscuit tin until it calmed down than humoured with a response of any sort.

(a glass of wine usually has the same effect, if anyone is to suffer the same fate as my old flatmate).

Perhaps this is why my boyfriend chooses to stay at work a good hour after his allotted time finishes.
Having been at the unfortunate end for several months of the response to 'how was your day' when I walked in from work, he now has the benefit of returning after I have had time to 'destress' and have had suitable preparation in developing an appropriate, calm and mature answer.

Either that or I say, through gritted teeth or eyes glistening with tears, 'you don't want to know'.

If that is the answer my boyfriend receives, it is likely that I have not managed to rid myself of the day's effects and only merely managed to surpress them, and during the course of the evening, at any given moment, he will endure a usually incomprehensible and hysterical outpouring.

Its a good job I just make websites and don't actually do anything that would be considered vaguely stressful with any real responsibility outside those that work in the world of the web who may (or, more realistically may not) recognise the frustrations that I endure.

I have found my only real vent is through exercise, where noone talks to me or, more the crux of the matter, I don't have to talk to anyone.

Or alcohol.

That usually works a treat (although this relief is slightly different as my cathartic release is usually vocally, rather than through perspiration, and has the additional negative aspect that I'll then whinge about my calorific intake at some point in the future, but hopefully whoever administered the alcoholic injection will be long gone).

So, a word of caution to those unfortunate souls that have to deal with the MoodStress, pick one of the above (I'd prefer them above the biscuit tin, if given an option).