I couldn't be a nine to five person, fixing myself to a presentable way at stupid o'clock for a repeat performance day after day after day until Friday night pints, a Saturday cowering and a Sunday counting down to the water cooler.
It wouldn't suit me.
I think I did it in a former life, I have some recollection of a routine around 2005 but it's nothing more than a foggy notion now. Did I or didn't I?
I try to look back on old posts for clues but I turn away gagging after perusing one or two.
A case in point:
'Anyway, they all went off to get fed and myself and Phinnaeus went to the Palace. Couple of jars there and it was back to mine with Beelzebub and more ale. Then myself and Phinnaeus toiled away in Neary's and Kehoe's all day Tuesday, just like the old college days - especially when his ex Persephone showed up. Left them to it around six and came back out home to watch the fitba.'
(I do detest when I'm with someone and they talk about their friends, people I've never met or even heard of before, and they refer to them in the first person. That was this blog for the first four years or thitherabouts, an assumptive mess. Avoid the archive.)
Where was I? Oh yeah, work. Nine to five. That old nut. Not for me, not even on these days where I switch on and off the television and settle on something as vapid as King of Queens ("seen it") or Tom fucking Dunne on the wireless.
I'd still take it over seeing the same chump at the same bus stop at the same appointed hour, before sitting in the same traffic, picking up the same bagel, same regular latté, same banter with the security guard and an identical set of barbs about the weather and Celebrity Jungle House.
It's in the post, though. Money is tightening and my current ration of irregular shift work can't hold me in this state of disgrace for much longer. I may have to become a person, just like other people, and come intimately to know the opening times of all the local coffee shops.
I need an idea.