As I switched off my early morning alarm and snuggled back under the warm duvet, it struck me that gathering enough willpower to get out of bed would probably be the toughest thing I had to do all day - after that, I reasoned, it's all plain sailing.

Couldn't have been more wrong. My latest sexy subroutine, which is of pivotal importance to the fabric of the nation (well, nearly), doesn't work. It fails spectacularly, bringing the whole shebang crashing down with it like an 18-wheeler through a house of cards. This not good, especially as yesterday I mistakenly told somebody that it was working just fine. Hmm. But I've isolated the problem (the first of many?), and early tomorrow morning I shall endeavour to patch it up. I keep telling myself that it'll be OK, it's just a job, no errors will make it through to the live environment, and if things go badly wrong someone will have to step in and help. But it doesn't wash, I know myself better than that, and the thought of f*cking up really depresses me. I'd like to be thought of as being meticulous, but it seems that just ain't the case any more.