Different people, different Mondays

I saw him catch a mackerel, inside the harbour, with a most unusual set-up: floater, small hook and bait. 
He seemed rather unperturbed. The fisherman, not the mackerel. 
No even a shadow of a smile. 

Me? I was finally managing a quick blast of fresh air at 2.45 pm, munching on a sandwich and swallowing back the tears, having opened a worryingly large amount of email pestilence, packed to the rafters with other people's problems that had suddenly become mine. And demanding a solution 48 hours ago. 

I was for a second tempted to kick him off his fishing chair, into the harbour. 

The mackerel would have applauded, from the bottom of the bucket.