Every week I lay plans as to how I am going to use my leisure time and every week I fall short. You know why? I feel so bloody tired and generally peeved by my work. Perhaps it's an age thing. In my earlier incarnation (let us call it, Dave the mogul years - this requires a little licence but you get the picture) I was never a great believer in the dignity of labour but there were highlights at work to lighten the burden. I was pretty good at it and there were moments of excitement and (sinful I know) pride. Those days are long gone.
So I work assiduously (there is residual professional pride in behaving like an officer of the court) and then I drive home listening to my music. I think of my plans for the evening but know that once I have cleaned up the remains of whatever the cats have eviscerated that day, I will want nothing more than to gorge myself, drink wine, channel-surf and fall asleep. So all in all this is a bit of a triumph because on the way home today I decided to write my blog. And all I could find the energy to do was bloody well whine on about work and the awfulness of ageing.
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