I think I'm turning into Garfield. Last week I was wrenched from my holidays in England to oversee the packing of our equipment for the Japan shows next month. After a bit of a lie-in and a fuck-up with the buses, I made it into work at 3pm on Friday, just in time to help my boss unload his hobby WW2 trucks. Then he wished me a nice weekend and pissed off on holiday (to England no less!). I stayed in bed until 2 pm yesterday and didnt even venture outside, opting instead to tidy my flat, which has been left empty for nigh-on six weeks and had been turned into some sort of nerve-center for plotting spiders. Thankfully, they've kept the flies down. It was military weekend on Discovery, so I was as happy as the proverbial pig in poo.
Thing is, I vowed to be more motivated this time. Last time I had a week here I made it into work in the afternoon two days out of five. I swore that this time I wouldn't allow myself to slip into the funk. And yet, here we are again. If I had something definite to do, I would get up for it, but this being here simply for the sake of it is really starting to get on my tits. I actually can't wait to get back on tour, so that I HAVE to get up at 7.30 each day after a maximum of 6 hours' sleep.
The boss is still giving vague orders from his luxury Bournemouth hotel and I actually managed to get here today at 9am. So I was only 2 and a half hours late for the load-out. Nice distribution of information there, chieferoonie. It's no biggie, of course, because the core staff don't need me here anyway; any help I can offer only serves to take hours away from them. Lucky wage-monkeys. And so another day of looking busy, doing nothing.
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