I met up with that drummer today from last night. It was pretty cool actually. He is not an educated man, but well travelled, and is a self taught instrument maker and repairer. He is repairing my broken cajon and upgrading it so its snare can be switched on or off at the flick of a switch rather than having to reach inside it from the back or unscrew the dozen or so screws on its front. I am thankful for this and paid him handsomely.
I perhaps should have gone into work this evening, but if I am honest, I'm sick of these people, utterly. I don't like being continuously ridiculed and shamed by these little kids, bullied by thugs or treated impolitely. Although the bullying has lessened (the punches are now far fewer than they were, and they haven't trapped anyone in the freezer with the lights off in a while now) it is more psychological now, and shaming. This is certainly not cricket and I feel strongly about it. After last night's 'performance' at the poker game, I would rather not see these people. When I called in sick (for I felt like crap today after a very long session yesterday) they insisted that I turn up. I called them back and put my foot down, saying that I am no fit state to work, assertively. They had no choice but to accept this turn of events.
I'm hoping that Chairlady Mao can come through with some work for me. (I was reviewed, reasonably favourably yesterday). I find it interesting that I was doing a review and she had the reviewer reviewed (which I was expecting, even if not told so up front). Even just a trickle of work just to cover the rent would be useful while I work on publishing my books. I will, of course, have to put up with those... people at that... place a little while longer, but I don't expect that it will be that long until I have a number of titles published. I very much look forward to always wearing a suit, never having to don that awful fast food uniform again, and more importantly, never more be bossed around, beaten and bullied by these brutes and little dictators. (My 'learned' colleagues). Even if I work longer hours for less money, I enjoy the work. There is a book learning how to read Egyptian hieroglyphs I have in which a contemporary historical report from one scribe (chronicling his work writing hieratic script) reads as follows. A young scribe, having completed his education, is set to work and is writing to his father:
"It is greater than any other profession. There is nothing like it on earth.
I have seen a coppersmith at work at his furnace. His fingers were like the claws of a crocodile...
The jeweller... when he completed the inlay work of amulets, his strength vanishes and he is worn out.
The barber shaves until the end of the evening. But he must be up early... He takes himself from street to street to find someone to shave. He wears his arms out to feed his belly.
The potter is covered with dirt. His clothes... stiff with mud, his headdress... is made of rags.
I shall describe to you the bricklayer. His kidneys hurt him.
The weaver inside the weaving house is... wretched... He cannot breathe the air...
The fletcher is completely wretched.
The furnace maker, his fingers are burnt... his eyes are inflamed because of the heaviness of the smoke.
The washerman launders at the riverbank near preying crocodiles.
After all this, the father replies to his son, saying, "See, I have put you on the path of God."
Max.
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