In ten hours* from now I will finish work for the last time; after that I’ll have a week off to indulge in the art of doing sweet FA. I may even sleep. One week of taking time out from nearly a decade of working. Trust me – I’m not counting the hours, I’m counting the seconds.
Once I’ve had a week to recover, I’ll be embarking on the trip of a lifetime to the Sahara desert for yet even more time out. Nothing is expected of me other than to absorb the local culture and the welcoming rays of the sun. Those twelve hour nightshifts I’ve been doing recently have left my skin alabaster white; funny how they didn’t mention that in the contract.
A few months ago I had a full time, albeit shitty job. To the detriment of my bank balance, I took on a temporary, part time job someplace else and said goodbye to working in an environment that was slowly eviscerating me to death; I think it got my brain first. I truly try and live my life without regrets (even when I had that dodgy perm some years back, I didn’t regret it – I just burned all photographic evidence it ever happened.) Yet even now, I can feel the beginnings of regret pulling at my consciousness. Or perhaps that’s just me pulling at my hair.

