Night shift

Twelve bells, and all's well.

I have problems sleeping.  I mean, I have problems sleeping at the best of times, let alone the worst of times; at worst, sleep is a distant memory.  I've pulled in straight 48 hour stints, and I once did three days split up by a scant pair of one hour power naps.  Just like my depression, sometimes my insomnia peaks for no discernible reason every now and again.  It's not great but... It's life.  Life as I know it.  I point blank refuse to take sleeping tablets on personal grounds, and try as hard as I can to get through the day without napping.  I know there are supposed to be all sorts of benefits to having an afternoon snooze, especially the fabled "coffee nap", but whatever, I don't care.  I once identified that essentially I just don't like being asleep, so go figure.

I recently discovered that on average, I'm awake for at least 16 hours a day, and in fact, as of this very second, I'm sailing through my 18th hour of consciousness.  Think about it for a second.  I'm working on the desk at the Office 7 hours, with an hour off for lunch... And then stay awake for nine more hours.  Imagine with me, if you will, the almost endless possibilities that lie before me... If only I could be bothered!  I could probably learn a new suite in 6 weeks, or solve Fermat's Last Theorem, or perhaps choose to improve my immediate environment by actually doing some ironing.  God alone knows how I'll fare once we get back into regular evensongs.  It's like I became an adult with a regular job without even noticing.  

Honestly, working 9-5 isn't amazing.  It certainly isn't wildly exciting, and I find it immensely draining some days, having to answer the phone, being subjected to all sorts of inquiries and demands, people phoning up to complain vehemently about things I know nothing of, or that special type of caller who feels duty bound to shout as loud as they possibly can down the phone.  And the rude callers.  Also, in what I can only see as a unique feature to this office, is the hatch: a sliding window that allows me to receive post and such small deliveries and also question those who try to barge in through the door, as if the lock is some sort of human rights violation.  Next to this hatch is the buzzer, which may well be the single most annoying thing.  There are three distinct criminal classes I associate with this joyless noise:

• The ones who see you've noticed them, assume a huge grin, and gleefully press the button, as if it's the funniest thing that's ever happened in our lives, that this amazing island of humour in an otherwise grey existence can bring us together for one brief moment...
• Those who walk in at quite a stately pace, stare ashen faced straight at you with empty eyes, like a sad halibut, and lean heavily on the buzzer.  One lady once pressed so hard for so long it actually distorted the little speaker that sounds the infernal buzzing, which was interesting merely through exhibiting something I didn't even think possible.
• Lastly, the very worst offenders are those who do not even bother to look.  They slide through the little narthex, their eyes fixed on the prize of entering this office complex, that they so desire for some reason.  They make sarcastic remarks about how slow my reactions must be as they march on through their day's master plan.  I imagine they are the sort of person who reprimand paint for not drying fast enough, grass for being too green &c.  I also imagine that they will never return, and instead choose, from that moment on, to live their lives in such a way that they will never need to come by this Office ever again; Alas, dear reader, you know as well as I, that it will remain pure fantasy.

 This endless cycle of telephones, emails and door buzzers is enough to drive one to the brink.  True, I'm able to get on with a bit of writing while I'm sat there, and I am earning a considerable sum of money for being there.  It's okay.  It could be a lot worse.  Every now and again I apply for bar work, which is as close as I'm going to get to the self-writing joke.  As far as I can see, the same faces just turn up in different places, almost as if there's just some kind of pool that these people are employed from and get shifted around and chosen by a new establishment, like one of those hook-a-duck stalls on a fair.  Rebutt me all you like, but I will always be on the outside of that particular circle.  Oh, that and I'm not really attractive enough to work behind a bar.

I'm really tired.  More physically, not so much existentially this time.  I've been awake for a long time, and I need to get up early(ish) so I can iron a fresh shirt for the day.  I know this is late, but it's still the third of September somewhere, right?