Dear Diary,
Work. It's just torturous. I'm so conflicted; grateful and relieved that I have a career and that I don't have to be scared of being out of work, but so pissed off at having to get up and be shouted at by ungrateful and entitled people day after day. I'm can't tell you what I do or where I work, but suffice to say it's with the public and that, my dear, is a Poisoned Chalice if ever there was one.
How I managed to drag myself out of bed this morning is beyond me. I lived the Sunday night insomnia you get after a brilliant weekend, when Work is looming on Monday morning. It's the only time I clock watch out of work...counting down the slow luminescent minutes on my clock in the early hours, until the alarm goes off. I 'welcome' another turgid day of pretending to give a toss and holding in what I want to say "Ally McBeal" style; even I have to laugh at the narrative in my head sometimes.
Thankfully I am at the end of my career trajectory. I don't have any desire to climb the greasy ladder of ambition. As long as I can earn enough to pay the bills, with a bit left to have a quality of life, then I'm ok.
It's Friday tomorrow. Hoorah.