There’s a book called ‘Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff’. It’s written by a man I’d enjoy beating about the head with his book, because whilst he might be able to breeze through life ignoring ‘small stuff', I can’t. My life is full of tedious details. This morning, running through the things I needed to remember, clutching a lunchbox, computer vouchers, envelope with a fiver for the school performance fund and ‘labelled pocket-sized’ small toy, the words ‘sod it’ were rising inside like bile and I wondered for a moment if I could toss the lot, run screaming down the hill and jump on the first flight to Guadalajara. It’s the small stuff that does my head in. Like the run-in I had at a local supermarket with a staff member. I’d previously locked horns with her when she was guarding customer services. The consistency of her misanthropy was admirable: “No, madam. I’m afraid it’s not the policy of this store to encourage evil trollops like yourself. I will never give you a refund because I loathe and despise you and all your tribe”. I may be paraphrasing, but only a little. She was on the tills this week and our contretemps was over shopping bags. You get extra points for bringing your own, and we were debating the number I’d used. “You haven’t used the black one, its empty” she said. Our eyes met and held. I picked up a bunch of flowers and shoved it in. “It’s not empty now” I said. A heavy pause. With barely suppressed fury, she added my point, finger jabbing as if it longed to do serious damage. Small stuff, perhaps. But winning; now that really matters.