Nixta Sinks

These are all words I've used to describe myself this morning, along with other rather less publishable ones (not because they're arsingly rude, but because they're more like primordial grunts and growls than words).

Raised by my architect father in a building built and designed by himself instilled in me an interest in architecture, and I'm rather fond of many of Foster And Partners' buildings. There's currently an exhibition of photography entitled "I Shot Norman Foster", the opening party of which I was fortunate enough to be invited to. I invited my mother and my father-in-law, both of whom happen to be in town and was very much looking forward to it. Didn't expect old Fozzie to be there himself, but still intrigued by the show.

Well, all was set for tonight, and then this morning when I examined the invitation in more detail, I found that the opening was yesterday. I was shocked. I was appalled. I bounced around Basil Fawlty style headbutting the bed and slapping myself in the face, and then retired to the shower to shout at the water.

I called the person who invited me, to apologise and to express my irritation at myself. She told me that not only was it a great party, and that all the waiters were wearing I Shot Norman Foster t-shirts, but also that Norman Foster himself was there, dressed in a pink suit. And then there was the champagne! Many times I asked her to stop, but she would not: Not only was the suit pink, but it was smokey pink. Not only was there champagne, but there was caviar, and the bubbly was flowing like nothing else.

To compound that, my father-in-law may head over there this evening to find me between 6pm and 8pm, only the gallery closes at 6pm and he's uncontactable.

Shit.

In other news, this is the worst corporate tagline I've seen this month, made worse by the gratuitous quotation marks:

"Thanks again for letting us be your Merchant of Emotion!"

The only emotion they've got out of me is rage because they failed entirely to fulfill their part of the transaction yesterday, namely to deliver flowers to my wife in New York.

Shits.