Nebulous balls

We now live in the future; the future as it was in the 80’s, is now here. Me, Michele, and Helen (Michele’s mum) are all sitting here, each with our own laptop, each pissing about on the Internet. I like it.

Work is plain weird. I was hoping that moving to America might help me cut down on my drinking – after all, everyone knows that drinking and work don’t mix in America. Well, it appears I have found the only workplace in the whole of North America where drinking in the workplace is not only acceptable, but financed! The fridge seems to be permanently full of high quality Belgian beer. As soon as the sun is over the yard-arm, we’re lubricated employees. America doesn’t know about sun and yard-arms though – they still use the clock.

So far I’m still quite bored there because the project I’ve been given hasn’t matured into anything practical as yet. As bollocks as it sounds, I much prefer being overworked than underworked. Being underworked causes me a strange, guilty, stress that is far more damaging than
the sort of breathless, busy, stress you get when every waking second is filled. It’s like teaching: when you’ve prepared too little work for the fastest kids, it’s a lot more stressful then when you’ve only prepared enough for the slower kids. My brain feels left out too at the moment.

Anyway – these are early days, as I keep forcing myself to remember, and so it will probably turn out ok. So far everyone I know at the place seems really sound, and that makes the whole thing a lot easier. Of course it’s very unlikely that they are all really sound so until I discover otherwise I’m just going to try and enjoy it. At least I’ve been enjoying the lunches out quite a bit.

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