I used to be a real weekend guy (above). A thoroughbred clock-watcher. A Monday to Friday work horse who believed in the sanctity of the weekend as though they were the only days that mattered. For me life began at five o’clock on a Friday evening when I walked through the factory gates and into the pub.
Here in Queaux there is no pub. There is no Monday to Friday. There is no clock watching. Or skipping off early for lunch. Or shaving the last thirty minutes off the day with a lengthy toilet break. No rotas or time cards. No overtime or unpaid leave. No sick pay or days off in lieu. No bosses or union officials. No politics or chit-chat. I don’t forget about my book when I walk through the factory gates of my room and into the kitchen to prepare my dinner. I may turn down the intensity a bit while I cook but it’s still there. On slow burn.
My previous jobs include: Bin man, burger flipper, field scientist, sound engineer, musician, Christmas tree seller, Census collector, builder, festival nacho stall lackey, English teacher, barman, fly posterer, charity fundraiser, waiter, warehouse picker, editor of local ads paper, admin assistant, postman, chef, marquee erector, band roady, bookseller.
And apart from the cheffing jobs, I’ve enjoyed none of them. Not one. Always clock watching. Waiting for the long hand to come up to the vertical. The short hand to the number 5. That’s a lot of time to be waiting: A lot of time wasted.
So it’s lucky that I’ve found this book to write. As though it fell out of the sky from the wreckage of all the bad jobs I’ve had. Something I actually enjoy. That I don’t mind working hard for. Coming in early. Putting in the hours. Even on a Saturday and Sunday.
True, I’m not getting paid for it at the moment. And I’ll have to do some teaching in September when I move to Bordeaux to raise some cash for olives and wine. But that’s OK. I can deal with it. Because at last I’ve found a job where I’m not constantly looking at the time. A job with no clocks.