I haven’t had a day off since Tuesday of last week and I won’t have another until Friday. I’m tired, of course, but it’s the stress that’s really beginning to take its toll. I get paid a distinctly average cashier wage, yet I’ve been left on my own time and time again to essentially oversee the management of one of the busiest shops in the city centre. I really shouldn’t say much more but let’s just say I won’t get so much as a thanks for busting a gut over and above my duties to ensure the shop doesn’t fall to bits.
I could continue to complain but two more days and it’s no longer my responsibility, for the weekend at least.
Two more days of hell but only three more sleeps until Bruce fucking Springsteen. Despite the fact I’m on the verge of tears, tears of pure joy, it’ll be lovely to spend a day or two with my dad. My mum and I have been to plenty of gigs together but it’s not really my dad’s style. He rarely drinks either so spending some time with him in a pub or two will be a welcome change.
When the excitement of seeing The Boss has worn off and we return from Manchester, I have the closing day of the West End Festival to look forward to on the Sunday. Aidan Moffat & Bill Wells, RM Hubbert, Miaoux Miaoux, Withered Hand, We Were Promised Jetpacks, Remember Remember, Monagonon, Wounded Knee and more. Sublime line-up.
So what do I have to complain about?
Well, a lot actually. But I’m making the effort to stay 100% positive and just enjoy my first weekend off in over three months.
Surely it can’t be that difficult?