I wake up and it's nearly nine instead of 7.30am. When I dig down through the cushions I put over it to stop the ticking keeping me awake, I find it's turned off. How? Why? I dress and decant to the busstop, aiming for the train that's ten minutes late rather than almost an hour early. The sky is anonymous white and there are no buses. When jackfirecat (who understands the pain of mornings) joins me at the stop, I'm more than ready to share my grumpiness. When I wonder aloud if I turned it off in my sleep, he says, "Thats what I did. Well, not in my sleep, but my alarm went off at 7.30 this morning (I don't know why) and I turned it off," and I just stare. He bloody got my alarm. Nicked it when I needed it. Is this what's been happening to the damn thing? ... and then I remember how this means that I won't have to mooch around Bicester for half an hour and then help Diane set up her bloody data projector and wonder suddenly if it wasn't something I'd visited on him, like the time my fetch went wandering and ended up in somebody's bed.
I was twenty minutes late for the meeting but still in time to say, "Yes, it's on the website," so that's OK.