Careering Outa Control

I don't like to repeat myself, unless no one's bothered listening the first time. If a sanctimonious eye-roller is worth howling once, it's surely worth reiterating. That's what the nun who presided over our state programme of sex education taught me anyways. Let's face it; anyone who takes a man's name and plonks the title "Sister" in front of it before postulating on the likelihood of getting his stalker catastrophically stuck inside you to the detriment of all future social interactions if you dare look at it sideways, without so much as a sly titter, can't be wrong.

Daydreaming through Twitter yesterday, I... er, twittered? tweeted? twatted?.. that "The construction industry may have died, but its paperwork lives on, like the body of a headless chicken". And it's entirely true. I know, because I work in said industry. Well, on the margins. On the precipices. Alright, I know fuck all about construction.

I spent yesterday desperately wishing for more limbs so that I could manage a constant influx of calls from would-be customers and rabid engineers while questioning the financial controller on how much accounts information to give out to humming and hawing clients. I filled out prequalification questionnaires with my elbows while pointing visitors to our showroom, and scanned and filed site surveys with wild-eyed juggling motions that would have given an epileptic the gawks. This morning I am facing into eight hours of translating my boss's hieroglyphics after yesterday's four management meetings. And yet I am acutely aware that I could easily have no job in twenty-four hours' time.

It's amazing to think that you could pass out from exhaustion on the job and have to be wiped off the floor with a sanitised mop for your redundancy notice to be effectively served. At the moment, because of the suspicious concentration of those management meetings, I am in very real fear that a higher percentage of my life will be devoted to playing the Wii and... ye gods! blogging!.. in the near future. It's not good for anyone to have to blunder through an intensive working day where half your hair falls out into your treacle-thick-out-of-necessity coffee, thinking that every time you clock out it will be your last. God almighty, I was only born in the middle of the last great recession! I'm not used to thinking of a job as something worth loving and nurturing and dancing with hand-in-hand around the lobby of my local AIB!

Ah Christ. We'll have to see how it goes, I suppose. I could always stage a sit-in, taking my cues from the workers at Waterford Crystal... the only problem being that my place of work isn't seen as a national institution deserving of the same respect as a dinosaur bone exhibition. Also, I can't blow glass. Glass. No. Can't blow glass.