Into the Valley of Death

Today I am back at work and, accordingly, back to blogging.

It's no fun blogging at home when you could be spending time with your husband or your family or friends. Or just outside enjoying the sunshine. Or inside reading a book. Or gorging at The Mint Leaf (RIP).

What is there at work? Well, there's work for a start. And that holds minimal interest. And there's a bunch of people who, while pleasant, are not the types I'd choose to have a conversation with.

And let me make it clear I labour under no false assumptions: I'm pretty sure the feeling is reciprocated. We all hang out in our offices, only exchanging pleasantries in the hall when we scurry forth to deliver bits of paper hither and, believe me, thither. And then we go home and let it all hang out. (Note to self: having written that, work hard at eradicating mental image of certain co-workers at home in the act of letting it all hang out.)

Which brings me to another point that has long confounded me: what is it with all these sad sad people who go off on holidays and stay in town and come into work on occasion just to say hi and see how things are going?? There is no excuse. No excuse. Go forth and get thee a life. My God. These are, of course, the same people who retire and then come back to work - as consultants - because, well, "they really missed the place".

So, to sum up, I'm back at work and to show my gratitude and enthusiasm for steady, paid employment, I've made the internet my first order of business.