“We spread rumours about the man above then, when he is replaced …”.
Being blind, I can not see his face.
His voice says private school.
The man’s a fool.
A girl’s upper middle class laugh brays
In response to what he says.
I think of dorms
And cricket on the lawns.
I dwell on old school caps
And half educated prats.
A harsh judgement perhaps
For we all lapse
From time to time
Gets our tongue
And inane songs are sung.
I went to a boarding school.
No doubt played the fool
And disregarded the rule.
So why so critical of my fellow man?
In honesty say
They have their days in virtue spent
And do not repent
Of a foolish word said
When alcohol has clouded the head?
“You look smart. Are you off somewhere nice?”, said the man operating the luggage gate at London Victoria’s mainline station. (Being blind this gentleman has assisted me onto trains on numerous occasions hence his familiarity in speaking to me in this manner).
“No, just work”, I replied.
“But its Sunday Kevin!”, he said with obvious surprise.
Suddenly everything clicked into place. The 4 coach train at my local station when, during the working week the train consists of 8-10 carriages should have screamed, “It’s the weekend you crazy man!”. Likewise the lack of people at the station together with their relative absence on my walk there should have registered with me as signifying that it was a Sunday.
I have never done anything like this before and can only conclude that my desire to be early for the meeting I was due to chair on Monday morning, coupled with the need to prepare for it so occupied me that I neglected to notice the trifling fact it was Sunday rather than Monday! Oh well at least my guide dog Trigger enjoyed an early morning trot albeit on a Sunday!
A new report suggests that 50 percent of occupations will disappear in the next 15 years and lists those likely to perish together with those which will survive. The report’s author’s are optimistic that people will find new more interesting occupations to replace those which perish.
An interesting post but, as one of the commenters remarks the author of the article ought to have entitled his piece “Is Your Boss A Sociopath” rather than a psychopath. Fortunately I have never experienced either a sociopathic or psychopathic boss although I have, in my personal life encountered people who, almost certainly fall into both categories.
In my short story, Samantha Sam’s pimp, Barry exhibits psychopathic behaviours. His sole goal is the making of money and he uses whatever means, including extreme violence against Sam and the other prostitutes who “work” for him to achieve that end.
Despite the security at my place of work intruders have been detected. Unauthorised visitors have been found wandering the coridors without the requisite credentials on previous occasions. Action has been taken, the authorities called in and the unwelcome guests sent packing. However try as the powers that be might, intruders keep breaking through our security barriers.
Things have gone missing from the filing cabinets and drawers. The unwelcome guests are circumspect being rarely seen. They generally operate in darkness when all good people and true are safely tucked up in their beds. However, on occasions colleagues have caught a glimse of the intruders, a mere flash of movement but none the less a sighting which is logged with the authorities. I think that the time has come to call in the services of that most stern of enforcers, Mr C, for with his powerful spring, sharp teeth and claws he will, surely rid the building of these pesky mice!
Sometimes I think that it would be far easier for me as an author where I to be fortunate enough to possess an independent income relieving me of the necessity to engage in paid employment. I leave my flat at around 7:30 am and usually get home between 6:30-7 pm by which time my brain wants to rest and, if I do write the tiredness sits on my shoulders like some giant succubus but without the delightful distractions offered by that mythical creature. On occasions I am able to shake off that guileful demon and write (much of my collection of short stories, The First Time was written in those long, dark winter evenings after work). While I felt a great sense of satisfaction after having spent several productive hours writing into the late evening, on the morrow my body and brain cried out in protest. Consequently most of my writing (other than blog posts) takes place during the weekend when I can sit undisturbed plugging away at my stories.
A good friend who is retired frequently spends the entire morning writing. I am envious of his ability to do this. Long gone is the necessity for him to spend a large portion of his day working for others. My friend is the master of his own time which he uses to good effect.
I would love to be able to write for 4-5 hours a day knowing that I had an independent income to sustain me. No concerns about the need to earn money to pay the bills, just the joy of writing filling my mornings. Having said that my participation in the world of work gives me a wider perspective on the world. There have been writers (some of them great) who have possessed independent means relieving them of the necessity to work. However participation in the hurly burly of society as opposed to being cloistered in the library of one’s house on a country estate furnishes the author with a broader understanding of the world with all it’s foibles, but if anyone wants to leave a landed estate to me in their will I will, reluctantly accept the bequest (it would be rude to do otherwise)!