26th August, 2003.
The War on Pooh continues. The Cow-orker's outrage (maintained by relentlessly rehashing the Bag of Pooh incident with everyone she speaks to on the phone - family, workmates, clients, and suppliers alike) is matched only by her growing unease at the awful things she's been saying about the offending childminders. But of course she has to keep saying bad things about them, otherwise she might forget what bad people they are and start feeling guilty about running them down the way she has been.
"I feel really funny about this," she complains constantly, until finally our manager (tired of suffering in silence) asks her why in a doomed attempt to impose reason and logic on the situation.
"Um, because ..." she tries. "Well, uhhh..."
"Because you're obviously really unhappy with the service you've been getting, and if they haven't been doing the right thing by you and The Spawn, you've got nothing to feel funny about at all."
"Oh, yeah, that's right."
The Cow-orker looks unconvinced and wallows in unceratinty some more. As gifted as she is at ignoring the blindingly obvious, somewhere in the back of her mind she's aware that for the last three years she's been singing the praises of the now-former Spawn Wranglers to such an extent that sainthood wouldn't have seemed unreasonable), and her brain is trying to reconcile the sudden about-face without exploding in the process.