I had a serious case of the Saturday night blues this week.
The Saturday night blues Ian? Surely some mistake?
Most definitely not an error dear reader – although thanks for asking – because I start work on Sunday morning with an oh-seven-forty pickup. I don’t mind really and am hardly making complaint, but it’s that “here it comes” feeling as a week-long project kicks off. (It’s akin paddling out into a big swell on the surfboard. You know it’ll be exciting, but it’s daunting and exhausting to start with. (Except I’d rather be surfing on the whole. Obvs.))
In case you didn’t know, in the UAE – along with a raft of mainly Arab states – the working week is Sunday-Thursday. Confusing. For starters a well know restaurant chain may want to rebrand: TGiT. Hey, maybe after Brexit we’ll get to work every Sunday when we’ve, y’know, taken back control?
For yours truly it’s a Friday daytime flight out. Factor in a four hour time difference and stick two fingers up at the flat earthers. Eh? Well, because after flying for seven hours you arrive the next day (Saturday) in the wee small hours. After forcing a too-early-to-sleep bedtime, fitful snoozing, grappling manfully with a morning by the pool and a full day of warmth before working all evening in preparation for Sunday morning. Ouch but not ouch.
Thankfully, work works well. A great relief. Good to be part of a functioning team.
It’s Sunday night now and we finished work at 21.00 (local). In all honesty, even though I’m not sure what day it is – only my calendar insists it’s Monday tomorrow – it’s been a long’un. I’m not so sure of anything right now: cognitive powers are slippppiinng.
Work is work. It’s just a different location, right? So why no images posted from Runcorn, Basingstoke, Swindon?
What I am sure of is that a commute home from Swindon doesn’t offer views like these:
And the view from a Hull Premier Inn bed doesn’t feature the world’s tallest building: