When I was a young man I used to work six days a week. We did the five weekdays then alternated Saturday or Sunday. I used to swap with someone else. He liked Saturdays off because he liked to go into town with his friends and I used to like Sundays off because I liked to watch motor racing, which was mainly on Sundays. In those days shops didn’t open on Sundays.
It worked well as a system, but I always wanted to get to a level where I didn’t have to work at weekends. Eventually I did. Then I started in the antiques trade, which meant I was back to weekend working. Now, at the twilight end of my career, I’m back to working Saturdays.
I sit here typing and wondering how I have ended up working on Saturdays. I’m not stressed about it. In practice it makes little difference to my life, but I can’t help wondering what happened to my career trajectory and the successful life I had planned.
I can’t really complain as I have a roof over my head, tolerant wife and food in the cupboards. It comes back to gratitude and knowing when you have enough. I touched on this yesterday, and today is another example. If I was living on a windy hillside in a plastic tent, and ten thousand refugees for neighbours, my dripping gutter would seem like paradise.
I wonder why we can organise a war in Ukraine, but we can’t attain world peace. It’s easier, I suppose, to shoot someone than help them. You have to wonder whether an international cull of politicians would help bring about world peace, shooting them being easier than re-educating them.
By 5pm I am hoping to be in a more cheerful mood.