Today has been the usual battle of wills against my spirit, which has been on a low ebb. Like Michael Crawford, "I godda bidda trouble", nothing major - yet - but I should go to see the quack (not that I can afford to).
So, Tom never turned up, again, nor did he call, so I was called in at the last moment. My shift ended just before the tips were in, so I'm brassick again. Not only that but seemingly I only typed in two meals and not four on their antiquated computer system (it works via steam power and punch cards) so I have had my wages halved for this evening. It looks like another young colleague might not turn up so I'm in again tomorrow, and working Christmas Eve night and New Year's Eve night, and every Friday and Saturday night.
"Social life" means me talking to the walls. Jesse McCormick said, "If you can't be happy on your own: you'll never be happy." I think she's right. I wish I could be more positive or optimistic but I am not. Life is not life, it is subsistence.
Rob did me a very kind turn today, he brought some food around. I was just about to cook it when the tiger-lady called. So, it's a cup of tea (no milk nor sugar) with a stale-bread sandwich in stone-cold sobriety, yet again. Life is... what it is.
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