immediate results

All my grand intentions of a nice nine-mile round after-work-walk to collect an errant parcel and buy a birthday present for my sister cruelly crushed by someone wanting something by close of business.

POO.

There is no better excuse for leaving at not a single minute past half-past three tomorrow.
Or maybe four o'clock seeing as my only scheduled meeting of the week goes from three until four. POO again.

I would have made it to the sorting office but only if they could be relied upon to obey GMT and not the personal whims of whichever skive-happy manager is in charge of winding forward the hands on the clock on any particular day. Rather than end up plaintively skipping down the steps towards a bolted door as my watch said 18:59 I gave up when I encountered a red man at the top of Broughton Street at 18:43.