with a churl in the middle of his forehead

I have turned into a curmudgeon.

Today I have rung the complaints department – sorry, customer service department – of a national flour milling & breadmaking company to complain of foreign matter in a loaf of bread. There was a one-inch cube inside the loaf of what looked like a cross between shit & oilslick, uncooked. I suspect it's a raw material from another batch of a different bread variety & their between-run cleaning procedures have gone down the gurgler. The local sales manager is calling around this afternoon to pick it up.

I have also rung the distribution department of the local weekly giveaway paper – a branch of the evil Murdoch empire; how could I resist this - & told them they were stupid for delivering the paper, unwrapped, at night in a rainstorm so that when you found it in the morning it was so sodden it went straight into the recycling. The whole street, & probably every paper delivered within the neighbourhood, would end up in the same condition as ours. I am having a new paper hand-delivered tomorrow.

& I have rung up our swimming pool maintenance people & accused them of stuffing up the pool. Which they have. There seems to be a rather large turnover of staff – I suspect they pay shithouse wages which in Rockhampton means SHITHOUSE - & so all these people with about two hours actual training are sent round supposedly to maintain the quality of your pool. The supervisor is coming around tomorrow for me to vent my spleen upon.

Plus, I got a call last week from the dentist I visited saying that he'd looked at the x-rays & suggested that I have the rest of my teeth pulled out. This from a dentist who has to refer me to an "oral surgeon" – now there's a job for you, Tom – because he doesn't think there's enough tooth showing to extract what's left without an operation. For you, my dear sir, two words.