Golfing with sharks

On the eve of a trip to Shropshire (Mum duties, as Mother's Day stuff didn't arrive - sigh) and then Cheshire (40th birthday celebration for a certain donkey driver) as part of an extended sanity-restoring Easter break, I am taking stock of where I stand, work-wise.

I don't know if anyone who reads this has ever played the sublime Super Mario Bros 3, but if you do, you'll know about the block on which you land - in World 1, Level 2, I think - after jumping on and then booting the tortoise shell and watching it bork back and forth beneath your feet. If you're not careful, the action you instigated will cause your own downfall as the shell destroys the block and you slip dim-wittedly into its path, tumbling backwards feet up with a stupid grin before floating slowly down off the bottom of the screen. Well, that sort of sums it up.

If you have never played the game, and have no intention of doing so, then I guess you will just have to try and imagine the allegorical illustration.

I'm reluctant to go into too much detail, but I always dreaded needing to know anything more about golf than was strictly necessary, and I now feel that this may be a requirement. Ringing in my ears is the 2 and a half hour conference call from this afternoon, and burned into my mind's eye are so many sharp suited fellas with 3G cards worshipping at the altar of commercial service delivery. And an old lady. Crying.