And . . . relax

It has been a very long week.  If time always went this slow then my life would be passing in dog years.  No, hold on, I mean if a dog took this long then I would be an old man, or is it a day is a year when a dog eats chum?*

My job is the sort of job that, when mentioned at dinner parties**, has one of two reactions from the person to whom I am talking.  Either they say "really, how interesting" and look for the nearest exit, or they say "really, what is that then?" and look for the nearest exit.  Even close friends don't really know what I do, and even under severe interrogation would only be able to admit that I am a "something manager I think".  Conversely, the role has never yet been mentioned during one of those slow-news-day items about daft EU or daft government or daft council, you know the ones where they discuss the daftness of various job roles such as Invasive Plant Removal Manager of some such.  This means I am hovering between "dull as ditch-water" and "not daft enough to care".

We are planning a quiet weekend, with some family time and a bit of kicking back and doing not much.  There will be DIY, and there will be beer drinking.  And my mum thinks I am important.

Have a good weekend.

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* The week has also done bad things to my mind.
** Not things I attend with any great frequency you understand