![]() ![]() my MA year 2013-20, the year I spent writing and writing and romancing and travelling and teaching English in Spain for six months. I’ve been used to working 50/60 hour weeks whenever I’ve worked, and it’s not a coincidence that the happiest periods of my life have always been those where I worked (for money) the least but maintained a firm focus on a long term project, i.e. It’s just such an absolutely colossal drain on one’s time, on the hours available to us to live. ![]() Having a job is just so fucking annoying, y’know? I don’t have a job waiting for me in the UK, and I don’t really think I want one. This is my last week in this job and, as happens, my responsibilities have dwindled and withered over the past few weeks to the point where I am almost redundant before I am unemployed. It’s almost nine o’clock and I’m at work, sat in a subterranean office while I wait for the event happening upstairs to dwindle and end so I can wrap things up and leave. ![]()
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