Oh, fuck. I’m not good with conflict at the best of times. I don’t like arguing harshly with anyone. I’m told I’ve been known to look like I’ve been slapped in the event of people reacting badly in a heated discussion. But what I have even more of a problem with is watching my friends argue.

Most of the time, the Ninth Art staff get on pretty well. But just the odd time, there’s a bit of a blow-up. So, I surface from my morning’s work to check my mail, and find Andrew and Antony arguing. The latest mail I got was from Andrew, throwing what might be politely called a fit of the collywobbles. This is the second time in a month that this has happened. This time around, it’s oddly worse, because last time it happened, I was seething at the result – a day or two of my work went down the pan. I really dislike having my time wasted, you see. But I kept my gob shut about how furious I was, because I knew that everyone else had wasted their time as well, and I just wanted the whole think filed in the “dead” basket, and also because I’m not totally stupid or insensitive. This time, I’ve got no childish outrage to hang on to, and I just feel sick. Quite literally. I’m sitting here at my desk feeling nauseous. I’m not kidding about not being good at watching my friends argue.

But it’s starting to feel like we’re back at PopImage, except that frankly, this time around I could walk away with less of a sense of guilt – everything I needed to do at the outset is done, and the site could go on as it is forever, with minimal technical work (chiefly ensuring that a back-up of the database is done every so often, and in the event of disaster, restoring it). I quit PopImage because it was no longer fun for me. Sitting at my desk, feeling like I ought to head for the toilets and chuck my guts up isn’t a whole lot of fun, either.

I’m not going to quit, or even to mention this to the others. I’m not a two-year old, after all (even though I behave like one sometimes). But I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

OK, I feel less sad now. It’s ten o’clock at night, the joy has left me, and now I just want to go home and collapse. But I no longer feel like I’m letting the side down by not getting everything I need to done for 9A. Although I’m sure one of my partners in crime will remind about something I said I’d have done weeks ago as soon as I next check my mail.