Monday 5th November

For the first time in my life really I am utterly bored with my work.  Even when I was a humble store man at the Carlton Tower, or taking cake orders at Lindy’s in the early eighties, I always enjoyed my work.  In fact I went at with relish, and I still, bored as I am, like to see a job well done.  There is absolutely no point in doing a bad job, be it so humble a task as painting a wall, or a complicated set of accounts.  Cut corners will always come back to haunt you, and anyway it really doesn’t take that much more time to do something properly than to bodge it.  In fact deliberate bodgementation is surprisingly hard to achieve.  So, the wonky shelves and the doors that don’t quite fit were the result of my best and not my worst efforts, in fact with DIY generally it is the third attempt at a job that finally succeeds, often when you have gone out in desperation and actually bought the correct tools for the job.

But lately, oh, in the last year or so I suppose, I have become utterly bored with my work.  Maybe it is the sheer repetition, the monthly figures that are always waiting to be processed, the fact that I doubt if anyone really ever looks at the numbers anyway, and somehow it all seems more and more futile.  Except for the vitally important fact that it keeps my salary being paid, and delays the inevitable day when I have to actually retire and sort out how on earth I am to live on my meagre pension I would chuck it in tomorrow.

But I have always been a fatalist, far happier for events to conspire to decide my future than to actually make any conscious decisions myself.  I keep hoping my boss will sack me, or even better make me redundant, but no.  No matter how I let him know I am bored and really not all interested in the job I just keep on keeping on, and he keeps on keeping me employed.