I love the smell of burning teeth in the morning.

We heard nothing about our new business pitch on Friday last week. Apparently our CEO had got the date wrong, and the decision was not to be announced until the end of the month.

Today though, we were summoned together to be told that our agency has lost its biggest account. It has to be said that this did not come as a complete surprise. They've been with our agency since the dawn of time and must be sick of the sight of us by now. I know I'm heartily sick of them.

It seems our superiors had known that the account was lost on Thursday last week, but withheld the news for fear of spoiling the Christmas party. In my opinion, it's debatable whether any news could have made that party less of a success. Even the news that a rogue meteor was on a collision course for Earth.

This ill-omened day also featured a trip to the dentist, where I underwent a very painful filling while the substitute dentist (my regular's away) tutted and fretted over the state of my teeth, discovering previously unsuspected areas of decay.

I am bitterly resentful about this because I practically live at the fucking dentist. I must have been there at least eight times this year. Could there be something wrong with the X-ray equipment? At first I stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling in terror, body rigid as a plank on the sinister black leather recliner. But I quickly realised that keeping my eyes shut would go a long way towards keeping more powdered teeth from flying into my eyes as the heavy-duty drilling continued.

Another appointment with this sadist has been scheduled in ten days' time. Perhaps a meteor strike will save me.