It shouldn't happen to a production manager

I've been on a downer lately. The worst thing is not being able to put your finger on why exactly. But June is turning out to be alright. It started pretty badly; I had planned a trip to Norway with my dad and my nephew to geek out about World War II bunkers, German submarine pens, and generally take in some breathtaking, never-before-seen sights. But my boss put the ky-bosh on that by insisting I was back in Holland. Fair play, I suppose, as we have a number of outdoor shows to plan, and they're all squeezed into a ridiculously short amount of time so that the kids, sorry... the orchestra, can enjoy their six-week summer holiday. I was also facing the prospect of finding an apartment and paying a small fortune for the privilege.

Amazingly I managed to do so on my first day back from a ridiculously short trip home where I saw no-one. My family weren't even there, they were mostly in Norway eating disgusting pickled fish and looking at 'Kraut-crete' bunkers. My apartment has it's drawbacks, of course, but after months on the road, broken up by days off spent on the tourbus, it's great to be able to cook myself a meal, watch a subtitled episode of South Park and sleep in an unmade bed, safe in the knowledge I wont be awoken by a border-hopping trolley-pusher. Do they throw out my socks or are they stealing them? I can't figure it out.

However, this new found comfort did not solve the problem that I thought was giving me most trouble; avoiding work. Before even leaving the States I was seething about being forced to move to a foreign country when I could just as easily do my job from my sister's home office. With a fantastic view of the Simonside hills and Yop in the fridge to boot.

But, as Im on salary, I suppose I have to be here. The first few days I really struggled to get out of bed before noon. As if to prove a point I only ventured to the studio or the admin offices every other day, mainly to start and then abandon a blog or check my soul-sapping myspace account.

I began to wonder what the cause of this lethargy could be. I was basically willing my boss to fire me. In my defence, I've been to the US twice in two months, which entails suicide-watch long-haul flight, working 6 17-hour days back to back, one day off holed up in a hotel trying to find replacement bus-drivers who know how to lie to border-guards, another 6 days on, followed by a murderous longhaul flight.

I worried I'd developed ME, or narcolepsy or similar and was destined to feel drained and frumpy for the rest of my days. Then like, trudging down the pavement in a thunderstorm and spotting a 50-pound note in a puddle, something presented itself that changed my outlook.

This is Chewie. No, I'm not in love with a pygmy goat. But she, and her unborn kid, possibly owe me their lives. I was walking back through the park when I saw this adorable specimen sneezing frantically in her enclosure. Being a bit of a soft get I poked my fingers through the fence to tickle her nose. She was struggling to swallow something yellow, and it was making a noise similar to rubbing two pool-balls together. Most unnerving. Try as she might, she couldn't sneeze out the offending item. Nearby children were getting upset. Or reaching for their mobile phones to film the death of a goat. Not wanting to see this through to its grim conclusion I grabbed her little horns so she couldn't pull away and hooked a finger into her mouth to pull out the offending item. She tried to escape and bite my fingers but she was no match for me. With a sloosh of goat-saliva, out popped the implement of death; a wedge of yellow-skinned apple. I released my grip on her horns and, unperturbed, she bent down and picked up the wedge of apple again, this time chewing it a bit more slowly. Young mothers obviously took me for some kind of goat-torturer.

But, I know I did the right thing. Now everytime I walk through the park I take some fruit, veg or bread with me, all torn into manageable pygmy-sized chunks. I have a purpose, and it's to make sure Chewie doesn't choke.

Next week; more middling antics as I find a fallow deer trapped in a cattle-grid.