Take down the yellow ribbons. I've not gone anywhere. Been busy that's all.

The longest hour is supposed to before dawn. Don't dispute that, can't do, I've had my share of staring straight at the ceiling, wide-eyed, dejected, worrying, bitten with remorse, even fearful.

Just happens in the morning, right? Oh, no, I've identified another period of the day, in fact it's a period of a particular day, where all of the tension that the longest hour perversely churns up, slithers upwards once again: the last hour before leaving the office on Friday.

I dread this time; yes, the week is done, the day coming to a close, a 48 hour stretch of joy ahead, but there's the monkey on my back of will something go wrong? Something that I've carefully, painfully in many cases, certainly laboriously put together a fix for whatever problem it is, will it nevertheless thwart me, bust it's buttons and all the stuffing pop out, and there'll be no time to restitch it, but plenty of harassing e-mails and calls from all and sundry that it needs to be, and why exactly did n't it hold in the first place...

On the other hand it could be that in the final thirty minutes of the working week, I'm asked to cobble together an e-mail that at one and the same time has to be: demanding (fix it !); yet courteous (please); show senior managers just what lengths I've gone, what hurdles crossed (look at me ! look at me !); nuanced enough not to rattle any feathers, but sharp enough to make a point (Impossible not to welcome the support of.....nevertheless it's always worthwhile to bring to everyone's attention...); then end on a rousing note (I am absolutely convinced we can crack this problem / overcome this barrier...). Thirty minutes to put togther something that has the mixed sensibility of the sweetest love letter and a no holds barred final demand for seven years backdated tax.

Too often it's the disaster: XYZ system's gone down, what are we going to do ? One stalwart feature of this passion play is that whoever it is who can breath life back into whatever wheezing, ill system it is, they'll have gone home and are n't contactable. As regular as the Sun rising in the east and setting in the west.

So, that last half hour of the final working day of the week has me as relaxed as a cat on a hot tin roof.