Working on the Sabbath

I'm at work today. I don't really have to be here, but I thought it wouldn't do any harm to show a bit of willing. I'm not being eager, though. Eagerness is frowned upon. I'm aiming for 'yeah, whatever, I'm like, at work', tinged with an unobtrusive streak of 'but I'm awfully keen to progress my career, Ma'am!' *clicks heels, fetches tea, polishes poinsettia*

I haven't worked on a Sunday for years, but it still feels exactly the same. Sitting on the tube on the way in, I had the same peculiar, parallel universe sensation that I used to get when I was a sales assistant at Body Shop. I was at university in London and worked from Friday to Monday to make up funds. Friday morning I'd be miserable as all hell as the wretched Circle Line hauled my sorry ass into High St Ken, while the workers of the world smiled dreamily at the thought of a lazy day and the weekend ahead. On Monday morning, I'd be beaming as the knackered masses trudged in to commence a week of drudgery, while I anticipated skipping off home for a long lie-in. I mean lecture. Whatever.

Working on the weekend just doesn't feel right. Like going out with your knickers over your trousers, or no bra on.

Mind you, I'm not the only one of my friends working today. Although the rest of them are all dotted all over the globe being terribly glamorous - gigging in Spain, event organising in Kuala Lumpa, and shooting in Egypt (for TV, not at camels). And of course, Andrew is in NZ doing that editing thing that he does. That that. I hope they are all safe, happy and SUNBURNED AHAHAHAHAHAAA! Only joking. No I'm not. Yes I am. No, I am. Really.