The 3-11 shifts in our place are a right royal bitch, and a week of them leaves no less a mortal than me in a dirty little headspace of cossetting myself and gently rocking on the floor in my flat, yearning to be a normal person like other people.
It's a once-a-month occurrence on the work roster and next week it falls on me. I'm in Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
You go in armed with the dregs of the sandwich stall from McCabes at 2.58pm, sit down and eat said dregs, then die a little inside for 15 or 20 minutes. Then a cup of tea. Then the starting of the work.
You check through all the articles written throughout the day for typos and factual inaccuracies. There are rarely factual inaccuracies but there are always typos.
An unclosed bracket is my greatest bugbear.
Once that editing process is finished, you move on to whatever sport has been left unattended by the early-shifter. I like when that's football or golf. I don't like when that's rugby or GAA. I don't mind too much when it's horse racing.
Then, as evening comes and the colleagues are headed to the pub or the cinema or the couch or to The Gate Theatre, you might wander out yourself to get a tease of the evening. Seeing people in their going home state leads you to stop a moment at the gates of Trinity, gather yourself, proceed to the place where the food is got, then it's back to the office.
It's 7pm now. Still so bright but the lights are on in the office, the air conditioning off. Then, if you're lucky, there will be some live match coverage to see you through to 9.45 or 10pm, and then just an hour to mop up and take care of any breaking news that's happened while the match has been on.
Next week, that will be me, only it probably won't be me. More fucking waiting, and this time the signs are ominous because yesterday the Premier League terminated their contract with Setanta Sports.
I have, of course, been stuck to the job sites but there doesn't seem to be much, if anything. Yesterday I found that a North Dublin home is looking for a funeral manager. I was over-qualified except for the fact that I don't hold a full, clean driving licence. I can't drive at all. So that's out. It'd probably be nothing like Six Feet Under anyway.
I'd like, ideally, to be a biographer of someone tall.