Working Back

Working back involves half a dozen exercises consisting of three to four sets of eight to 10 reps. Most of the time. Every now and again it means I have to grind my teeth and remain in the office long enough to see the arrival of the cleaners AND this inevitable thought: What the fuck am I still doing here?

A tender. Ordinarily a lightly crumbed piece of chicken you wish was a bit less salty. Tonight, it is an application being made by my company - in competition with several others - to offer services to another bigger, richer company. Six centimetres thick, it is impossible to imagine more than a tenth of it being seen by human eyes. I'm on deck because, as "graphic designer", I seem to be responsible for any time ink touches paper. Creatively, it is as appealing as adult circumcision.

The saving grace of having a somewhat dead-end job with a salary that can't keep up to inflation is that you always get to punch out at a reasonable time. Evidently, I'm not happy.

I don't believe in my dickhead boss's ability to hunt or gather food, so when he asks the few of us that are there whether we'd like anything, I say "No". Shanky, my manager, goes the other way. Initially, the dry meat pies and sausage rolls they tucked into filled me with jealously and topped up my fury. Savoury pastries can bend the fabric of space and time, instantly putting me at the front of the Marcellin College tuck shop line. I snapped out of it and smashed a Protein drink in lieu of going to the gym (don't ask me how that works, because I don't think it does).

It's half way through the second half of the State of Origin and NSW are losing. This doesn't generate any kind of emotional response in me. I'm just wondering how Optimus and Shia are doing against Megatron, and whether Matt with be able to write a reasonable review without doing all that **SPOILERS AHEAD!!** bullshit.

I'm finally out. The train ride home is good, no little corporate hoes calling their chump boyfriends to let them know "they're approaching Rockdale" (are you a pilot, bitch?) or to give them some brainless ideas about dinner ("Should we just grab some Thai?"). The drunken derelicts taking turns at Kogarah Station Karaoke Night make me about as half-full as I'll get this evening. I swing by Mum and Dad's to nick a piece of that fat raisin bread (soon to be toast) which was dancing around in my head between Wolli Creek and Kogarah. Thanks Mum and Dad. I swerve to avoid hitting an already dead cat on Chuter Avenue. It seemed pretty fresh. In one of those houses sleeps a kid who'll have a pretty ordinary Thursday, and a dad who'll have to choose his words carefully whilst wondering how the fuck to remove Kitty from the asphalt before it's time for school.

I don't even feel like this raisin toast now, but I'll eat it anyway. This is for you, Kitty.

PWT