A long time ago I was warned that the biblical principle of seven abundant years followed by seven lean ones applies trans-universally, whether you believe your Bible or not.
Does such law only relate to one's finances?
Our current $ituation dictates digging a deep hole and hiding in it for an extended period of time. Even so, that $ad $tate of our affair$ is the least of my problems.
For one, work is a disaster with the other two designers having both resigned. Willa leaves as soon as next week Friday to join a glamorous scuba magazine; Corlea breathes down her neck and finishes the following Thursday. She's going into textile design.
For an unknown reason I'm reminded of the swarm of damp rats in Titanic scampering across the decks in order to to escape the doomed liner alive. Not that the girls are rats... nor our employer a sinking liner, by any standards. However, if I also chose to leave the company right now, the analogy would be absolutely appropriate.
Anyway, time being there'll still be three designers: Me, Myself and I. Incredibly, others get to do the things I'd like to do and see the things I desire to see.
Starting on my 39th birthday, for the third time at my current employers I will be the only designer/estimator/counter attendant/manager until the powers-that-be locate and appoint a helper. Early evenings and weekends off have been cancelled for the next year or so, by which time I'll have had enough time to instruct the newbie(s) in all the relevant matters.
While on the subject of of time... I found myself in possession of an unexpected snatch of the stuff today; enough to allow me to finally phone Flymo's distributors so they could come running to fix his broken ass. I was snootily informed that they don't offer that kind of call-out service and that unless I could drag the bike into the shop by the plastic scruff of his busted neck, they'd be unable to assist me.
I have to wonder how it can be be that I pay hundreds monthly for two years of the laughable "Limited Warranty" and "Roadside Assist" Big Boy Scooters sold me not six months ago with the purchase of my brand-spanking new scooter, only to be faced with such an absurd obstacle?
Meanwhile, the Nissan's clutch is on its last, shaky legs. Yesterday when I took the last turn on the way to work, grinding the unwilling gearbox into third, some metal bit snapped under the hood and flew off, rolling noisily down the road to the great amazement of passers-by.
Like those rats again, no?
To be frank, my warm family faithfully awaiting my daily return is the only thing keeping me glued together at this moment.
Written by I