This post will convincingly illustrate how effective schadenfreude can be as an anti-depressant.
I slept through my alarm this morning. I awoke at about 10am having slept for 12 hours straight. Even after waking and checking the clock, it took me a further half an hour for the time really to penetrate the dull density which was my brain. One of my colleagues even sent me a text asking if I was okay at about 9.30am, and still the penny didn’t drop that I was vastly late. By the time I arrived at work, everyone was apparently worried that I had been run over by a lorry on my way in.
However, despite causing the postponement of an important meeting, and having to make several shame-faced (actually, more bemused than shame-faced) apologies, my day soon took a turn for the better when Pint-Sized Martial Arts Woman who sits nearest to me recounted her morning:
She cycled into work for the first time, arriving with seconds to spare. Dashing upstairs to the main bathroom for a quick shower, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror getting dressed, wearing only her bra – knickers ready in hand – when in walked the boss. She had completely omitted to lock the bathroom door. Yikes.