I’ve had the gremlins staying over for the latter part of the week. They arrived, unheralded on Wednesday when they got into the lawn mower and sucked up all the oil until the engine gave an unbecoming belch and shot out black goo in a fountain of Trevi proportions.
Not content with that, the little imps jogged my arm whilst I was strimming by the fruit netting and made me catch up a lump of plastic net and weave it in, out and every-which-way around vital moving parts – the strimmer’s not mine. And for an encore, the following day, having got the strimmer repaired they made me do it all over again.
Then to cap it all they made me get into an argument…ahem…lively debate about being offended. My antagonist claimed that something I’d written made her feel offended. I tried to point out politely that taking offence at something or someone is a choice…a to be or not to be offended type of proposition. There are alternatives – feel nothing, feel amused, feel intrigued. But no, this lady was adamant I’d made her feel offended and she hadn’t been able to concentrate properly at work and she got a wigging as a result. I was about to suggest that she was just looking for someone to blame but then I remembered the gremlins and not wishing to attract their attention again, I kept schtum.
There’s nothing more painful than being hoist by your own petard. Ouch!