went the day well

"The name of the Managing Director is Monty Bates."
That was all the email said.
I found it on my computer in the morning.
Sneeran had sent it although it wasn't signed.
I looked at it.
The hoop was being held high.
This email meant as the others meant: "Go on James. Lodge a complaint. Go on. Give it your best shot. Let's see what you can do."
I reached for the phone and dialled the Leinster Lootheramawn.
Sneeran refused to take my call.
I asked the girl on the switch to pass him a message.
"Tell him James Healy wants to know what he meant by the email he sent me this morning."
This sort of message coming from a girl on the switch would be hard for Sneeran to ignore.
At 4.30 in the afternoon he rang back.
I knew who it was before I answered.
I held the receiver for a moment. He'd waited hours. It was obvious he would be recording this call. It was obvious I'd be on speaker phone. It was obvious the Managing Director would be present.
Theoretically it might be cleverer for me to play it cool.
"Yes," I said grimly.
"James," said Sneeran in a voice that essayed joviality.
I cut in.
"What did you mean by the email you sent this morning?"
"Well I..."
"What did you mean by: The Managing Director's name is Monty Bates?"
"I just thought..."
"Mr Sneeran are you trying to provoke me?"
He tried to raise some high dudgeon of his own. I didn't let him.
He nearly managed to say something beginning with "how dare" but it was beyond him in the present circumstances.
Sneeran was dealing with something he hadn't faced before. A first strike. No prisoners. A global thermonuclear James.
After a few minutes I could tell he wasn't enjoying himself. Why? Why, if he had it all planned, why if the Managing Director was listening, why if the call was being recorded, why wouldn't he be happy that I'd fallen, walked, leaped into his trap.
And from somewhere far away, watching myself, I realised... What I was saying was striking home. It was no fun for him hearing the truth about himself proclaimed with vehement justice in front of supposedly secret witnesses for whom his own fervourless lack of honour was now clearly writ large. No fun even if they were his own witnesses.
My closing line was meaningful.
I called him a clown and hung up while he was still endeavouring to get out his first sentence.
The door of my room opened.
Apparently I'd raised my voice.
The Dad stuck in his head.
"Are YOU okay?"
"I am okay Dad."
He withdrew shutting the door gently behind him.
I sat in the stillness.
I've never believed that the teaching of the Lord about turning the other cheek is intended as a justification for tyrants or for clowns.
I looked into my heart.
It didn't feel as if I had offended God.
On my computer screen lay the pristine letter of complaint Sneeran was daring me to send.
I paused for a moment.
If you had seen me bold readers you might have thought I was scenting the very air.
Then I printed out the letter.
Within twenty minutes it was in the post and on its way.