The other day I was enraged. It was a hellhole of a day where nothing I set out to do was done without problem, conflict, delay or momentary failure. It was so compelling that I almost felt like there was a god, and that god was, The God of Mischief, who it seemed to have taken a personal interest in toying with me!

I overslept by several hours; not a good thing on a "Brewday." I was hung over so my mood was surly and flashpoint was low; Tolerance is an aspiration that significantly suffers the morning after any heavy night before. The day before I'd taken possession of new brewhouse furniture and the old furniture was still stacked up in the middle of the room ready to be relocated down stairs.

Timewise, my wife was heading out to go to a Spring Fair with the boy and some friends. the Next day we needed to bring in some garden furniture and prepare the place for an afternoon bbq. I moved an old bamboo table down into the yard and shifted a box of empty bottles underneath it - my wife did not accept this solution and I'd yet had time to organize the pickup of the bottles from by the supplier.

This disagreement on the use of the outdoor space popped my cork, I went off; picked up the table and hauled it outside the gate to the refuse collection point. All the while my wife was saying no, not to throw it out. Our visitors had arrived just in time for the ugly scene, indeed I had to side step around them to reach the refuse collection point, AND my son started crying at the uproar.

Something inside me twinged as he began to cry but most of me was so wrapped up in the anger of the moment that I didn't give a flying fuck about anything or anyone.I stormed inside and proceeded to get the next batch of furniture from the brewery. I knew that my missus had brought the table in from outside the gate and left with my son and the visitors. I needed the time to cool off a little and the physical activity helped to diminish the angry twitching in my arms.

I stacked three bamboo stools on top of the table in the middle of the yard, picked up the bottles and moved them to a corner of the garden, near the gate, ready for pickup and called the shop to organize their pickup the next morning. I looked at the table and stools and thought long about burning the bastards on the spot.

Instead, I went back to the brewery, sat down for a moment and collected my thoughts. It was after 1:30 pm and I still didn't have grain in water. I needed to crush some grain. I ran the grain through the mill - nothing. Three times nothing and enraged again I proclaimed, "I don't want to brew today!" Almost believing it, I adjusted the grain mill, tried again only to jam it and flip the whole thing over. In abject despair and frustration I sunk my boot into the side of the grain bucket, kicking grain all over the brand new brewhouse and the room. Coat off, boots off and I stormed out of the brewery.

I needed to work, to get away, anything to take my mind of this tortured and tormenting day. I met some neighbors who asked about my day, that was when I declared the machinations of The God of Mischief. The phrase just seemed to work itself over and over like a broken record: here is the truth, here is the reason why, speak it again, and again, and it will be true.

As the clear air and distance from the moment took its effect I realized that was just having a bit of Floor Time; thrashing around and bellowing like some disgruntled kid that didn't get his/her way; having a temper tantrum; but not solving the problem. Soon realization came that the first thing I needed to do was to control my emotions when confronted with a challenge. I had fallen a long, long way. Is this what mid-life crisis is all about? Confronting the resurgence of one's inner child and making a choice?

With renewed calm I visited my friend and borrowed his mill. crushed the grain and got my brewday moving forward. Yet half an hour into the final boil, I ran out of gas. I walked around and around and around the brewroom, pacing, thinking, trying to remain calmer than was earlier in the day. I need gas, Where? Kitchen? BBQ? Order another now? It was 6pm and I was hungry. OK, get the bbq bottle, bring it up, got to my mates place for dinner, talk with the family, come back and continue - "Keep Moving Forward." Tomorrow I can order a new bottle for the bbq, there is enough time.

I head towards my mate's place and get within two hundred meters of his door; stop; turn around walk a few steps; turn around and repeat - I'd forgotten the mill, it there no end to this? my anger has long since left to be replaced with a desultory acceptance of what ever is, is. "What you haven't got in the head, you've got in the legs." I go back to get the mill.

Earlier in the day I'd also borrowed his daughter's stroller, at his prompting to bring the heavy mill back to my place. True to the day's form, the stroller was no longer there. Now what? Ok, use my son's stroller and then my son can use it to come back home later in the evening.

At dinner, I ruefully relate the days continuing events. Such a comedy of errors could not be written. After dinner, I come back with the wife and son, explain the bottle pickup, and had organized with my mate to collect the garden furniture the next morning.