Work is the scourge of the working class

Remember when you left school or college with dreams? Can you recall the mountain of applications you made for jobs you wanted? How long was it before the rejection letters piled up along with the household bills, and you considered getting a temporary job to tide you over? Remember telling yourself that you would continue to apply for jobs you wanted around this temporary job? The first few weeks you would check the papers and tear out any possibilities and put them to one side. Remember thinking you would get around to sending off for the application forms? Remember coming home from your temporary job every night too weary and discouraged and disillusioned to do anything but watch TV?
And then ten years go by, fifteen years fly by and your temporary job is now permanent. You are comfortable. You can pay your bills and go on holiday. You can buy a flat screen tele even though your old one, although enormously fat in comparison, was perfectly fine. You don't look for those jobs you wanted any more.
And one day, quite by accident, a job advert catches your eye. It is one of those jobs. It asks for someone with 10 years experience in that field. You think to yourself, if I hadn't spent my life working all that time, I could really have made a concerted effort to get that job I wanted all those years ago... and now it is too late.
Experience is everything. Make the right choice and remember when you make a decision that you will not have any regrets.
Regret only not making a choice.

Post holiday trauma

It's always the same after a period away from normal life, when you return, everything feels tougher than it was before you went away.
A holiday, far from making you feel refreshed and renewing your enthusiasm for life, serves only to show you a life that you can never have. This is the scourge of the working classes.

Essentially this small depression in the normal flow of life at elementary recordings is the result of a break from the norm. Such a great time was had by all that no one wanted to come back. This glimpse of how the other half live is sitting like a tonne of bile in my gut this week, and I am sickened by that laughing, drinking, swimming, dancing, sweating man I was last week, he seems to stick two fingers up at me now as I sit behind this desk with nothing but a mirage of memories.

This is worse than New Years Day.

Remember this: never go on holiday. Next year I have decided I am not going to come back.