It’s a Saturday afternoon, the weather outside is damp and grey. I’m working behind the counter of the local electrical shop, feeling a little jaded from the night before. England played Sweden last night in their second game of the Euro 2012 football tournament. We won. We celebrated. I fell asleep fully dressed. You know how it is.
So here I am, killing time for the minimum wage (it works out at roughly two pints of Carlsberg Export, give or take a small packet of crisps), trying to think of something halfway amusing and failing miserably.
Ten years ago, when I was a wage slave to Her Majesty The Queen (Betty to her close friends), I may well have been at work this time on a Saturday. Overtime. Double the hourly rate of pay. Paid travelling time. Goodness knows how many pints per hour that equated to: possibly a whole evenings worth. Back in the days when work was still almost fun. Til some pocket-sized Hitler took over the running of the office.
But that’s a story for another day.