What with the war in the east, the plague still lingering, fuel and grain going up, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, I shouldn't complain too much about working as an unskilled labourer in the same job I did as an undergraduate, as a post graduate, and now as a so-called 'master'. This is the darkest age Britain has ever seen since the mid sixth century. It is not Renaissance Italy, evidently. Yet there is this young lad at work, and yesterday he didn't show up. He's the 17 year old pegged to be the new shift manager. Because, well, that's what happens when you promote a 17 year old over the most experienced, most well educated, most well suited people. Much like Britain itself, the place is run by clowns and brutes.
Anyway, I have been working on Boadicea still (not that such talents are of any use much less appreciated on any level whatsoever in this country, and that's okay too: were Shakespeare around today he be on Universal Credit or working in McDonald's as an unskilled labourer. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently). I cannot help but feel that I have wasted my entire life. My estranged daughter hasn't been in touch, which is concerning. I managed to get my mother's day card off today, so that was something at least. Now all I need to do is get back to work (even though I have just got back from work), because, well, that is my so-called 'life'. This is Friday night. I should be out somewhere, having fun, playing music in a band or just socialising. I am, in fact, shattered, because I work hard. I think that a nice cup of tea (green: no milk no sugar) and a stale bread sandwich (just bread, half stale) are in order. It doesn't get any better than that. No sir. Not France, nor Italy, nor Spain, nor Germany can match such culinary delights and elegant sophistication.
Max.
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