Work, Part 5,468

If we could sort out work, I figure we'd have a lot of life worked out.
Work is a big one.
When we don't have it, we want it. When we do have it, we want to get away from it.
Now that I have just a bit of it, you'd think that might be right.
Wrong.
Shall I try to get more?
There?
Elsewhere?
Working somewhere just a couple days a week means not having to care.
It's actually hard not to care.
Part of me cares.
Another part doesn't.
If you care, you're really part of it.
If you don't, you're not.
Do I want to be more a part of this new place?
Part of me says yes, of course.
You're lucky there is this new place.
Another part of me screeches 'no way.'
Do other things! Fulfill those dreams, girl, damn!
I read a study recently that said older people are much happier than younger people.
And one of the main reasons cited is that they don't have to care about work anymore.
Their careers.
Or lack thereof.
If they've fulfilled their ambitions.
Or haven't.
Or any of that.
What freedom.

Running out of Time Already

It's almost 11 p.m. here now and I'm finally getting down to writing you.
Amazing how working just takes all your friggin' time.
Eight or more hours in the working day. And then here, I gotta leave an hour each way to get there, although today, luckily enough, we got there in about 45 minutes and snagged two seats the whole way.
You just never can tell with the Tube.
My son says it's all about how many trains come.
Duh.
Anyway, so that's ten hours at least.
Then we got delivery Chinese for dinner tonight. So didn't even cook.
But we called my youngest son -- and talked to him for quite awhile.
Ate dinner.
Had a couple errands to tend to.
Watched an episode of a television series on Queen Elizabeth II that I'm enjoying.
And that's about it for today.
Time for bed.
And start over tomorrow.
This is the problem with working.
It's about all you can fit in really.
But then, you don't have time to dwell on anything else. Or do much else.
You get up, go to work, work all day, come home, and that's your life.
So you don't need to get a life.
Because that is your life.

Friday night

The Tube is such a strange creature.
You never know what it's going to be like.
Are you going to be squished like a sardine, with your back up against the doors, like my son and I were going into town the other day? Or are you going to get to sit down and read your free paper in peace?
Hard to predict.
Do not see rhyme or reason to it yet. Depends on how quick the trains come basically, which is something way beyond knowing.
Here's one little guess on the situation: The Friday night commute home, which I just did, is less busy, because people stay in town and go to the pub to start their weekends. Central London is packed.
The Brits are nothing without their drink. More about that later.
Back to the Tube. Which is very pretty, really. Some of the stations are art deco gems. Love the way they light the brick archways at Gloucester Road station.
Anyway, yesterday afternoon and today up and back to work, the Tube was a delight. Sat down the whole way; enjoyed the free paper. Love the free Evening Standard.
That coming right after yesterday morning, though, when my 6'5" son was pinned against the sliding door for several stops. By the sheer crush of commuters.
With his neck bent over like a giraffe.
It was kinda comical.
At one point, a tiny woman managed to push in behind him at one stop, about half his height.
He couldn't turn around and his back-pack just grazed her head.
"Is there someone behind me?" he whispered at one point.
Yep. There is.

Work Again

Amazing how much self-worth we get from our jobs.
I hate that though. The reliance on that.
But it feels so good when things go right.
Which they often don't in the workplace.
The work I did over the past three days at my freelance job got validated today. Good play, compliments.
First time that's happened to me since I left my old job uh, more than a year ago now.
My old job wasn't always good, like a lot of jobs, it went up and down, but at the end, it was the best it had ever been.
I was on a roll right before I left -- writing for different sections of the paper, writing, writing, writing. My kids had left home; my parents had died. I had time for the first time in two decades. And my newspaper was full of places where a reporter with time could express themselves.
It was all good.
Until it all went bad.
Because the newspaper industry is dying. Which is so sad.
Everyone involved with it knows it though.
So I took the buy-out. Even though things were going good.
Next buy-out -- they've had two more since mine -- I probably wouldn't have had a choice. Didn't have great choices even when I took it.
More reason to look towards the future. Not stay mired in the past. Like my girlfriend said.
And today, I am.
Because they liked what I wrote. Gave it good play. Told me about it.
Aaah...
How pathetic is that?