Goddamnit!

I don't know what it is, but there have been curious things going on ever since the weekend's stunning coincidence. Mainly, work has been - if I may be curt - utter shit, but there have been silver linings.

The smallest of my magazines has been a harrowing experience. First everything got put back by the snow, then we had flooding in the office over the weekend, causing further delays as the maintenance crews cleaned up and made safe as much of the office as they could. The magazines got pushed back another two days, meaning the smallest was supposed to go out today... but my next magazine - my largest - could not be put back due to advertiser requirements, so that's supposed to go out tomorrow.

Normally I have a clear three days between their press days.

And I need them.

Initially, my boss suggested I palm off the initial stages of my largest magazine on my counterpart, who leaves on Friday, along with everyone else, and had already done his last magazine for his term of service. On the way home last night, I realised it'd be far better if he took out the smallest, not least because it would be easier, and I was less concerned about it going terribly wrong.

Of course, when this was proposed to him, he looked quite cheerful - this was the magazine he'd first started working on, 11 years ago... what better way to round off his term of service with the company, than to put out one last issue of his first ever magazine?

So I concentrated on my behemoth.

Part way through the day, the Property Salesperson I utterly loathe (as she is lazy, spiteful, condescending and entirely thoughtless) finally noticed that she'd made a mistake with one of her bookings. She had offered a client three pages, but booked only two. Of course, in her world, she had booked three pages, because that's what was agreed in her email exchanges with the client. In my world she had not only booked just two pages, but she had failed to check the flatplan to ensure her bookings were correct. And it's not as if there was a shortage of flatplan printouts for her to check. The Property section was full. No space for an additional page.

Naturally, she wanted to rearrange more than half the magazine - moving pages from Lifestyle into Property - to accommodate the extra page, and couldn't see why it was a problem to take two - granted, otherwise unused - pages from the front of the magazine and put them right near the back... despite the fact that a good chunk of the magazine had already been output and made ready to send to the Printers.

And that's just part of the problem. They see a flatplan, and think it's easy to shift a couple of pages from here to there. It's on a computer, innit? It's a five minute job. They don't realise that some of the pages in between will need - at the very least - changes to the folios because they've moved forward by however many pages.

So she kicked up a fuss, speaking to our esteemed Publishing Director who, in part due to her twisted little power play interference in the Property team, immediately sided with the Property Rep, and demanded that everything move to accommodate. She'd caught her mistake, and wanted it fixed now, her way. Even when a serviceable 'plan b' was mooted, nothing was good enough except completely ruining my half-day's work.

So my boss kicked up a fuss in return, bumping it even higher up the food chain, and pulling our trump card: They could stick their freelance work, because we hadn't offered to return for two, then three days next week to output the last two magazines because of the money. Hurt our professional pride by acting like we are obligated to deal with other people's shit two days before we're thrown out, and we would not be inclined to return.

Publishing Director is absolutely not happy that our argument carried far more weight.

It is quite clear to all those higher up the food chain that they are thoroughly fucked if we do not turn up for work on Monday. Clear to PD, too, she just chooses not to accept it.

While I was at work, I decided that I didn't want to do the freelance work anyway. What was the point? To give them another three days in which to try to piss all over us? No, thank you.

And yet now, tapping away at my keyboard at home before I retire for the night, the stupid old romantic in me wants my own silver lining... Because, if I do go in next week, my last magazine will be the one that, essentially, got me my job there, 11 years ago. They'd just bought the title, and needed extra staff. The ad in the newspaper might as well have been asking for me by name. I happily accepted a £2k pay cut and lower rank, because I knew I could do the job better than anyone else they might interview.

I hate to say it (no, seriously, I really hate to say it) but I probably owe it to myself to put out that last issue...