Helen, a girl I work with, has a saying: Work Buys Beer.
It also pays the rent, which allows me to sit in the back garden on an evening and study the movement of the trees in the beeze, and it buys cat-food which means that Starlight still loves me, and it pays for petrol and other stuff.
Work pays for my excursions, it’s going to buy me a Macbook Pro next month, and it buys me red wine too, without which the world would be monochrome and deeply sad.
Despite this, as often as possible, I wear a t-shirt to work that bears the acronym FRO, which stands for Fuck Right Off, and sort of sums up my attitude to the day job.
Sometimes, I write FRO on the back of my hand in marker pen.
I’d give up work tomorrow if I could. I’d give it up now, if I was able; would simply decide never to think about it again, not even bothering to call in or write a letter of resignation. I’d just drop it like an unpleasant topic.
But until I can afford that option I’m resolved to arrive, smiling, at work, at eight fifteen every morning, and earn my right to drink wine, feed the cat and write.
But I live in hope.