There is always a certain kind of dread that I am filled with on the night before work, which makes this final day off almost bittersweet. I am glad not to be working, but in the back of my mind I know that this time tomorrow I will be.
I can't really complain too much, after all today is my 9th day off in a row - not annual leave or sickness or anything like that, just rostered rest days. I did have to work Christmas and Boxing Day though, so it's not all sunshine and rainbows with all this time off!
For me, I always ruminate about a worst case scenario - an incredibly busy day or some complex task or one irritable colleague who makes your life hell - it almost never comes to fruition.
As I wait for the hours to pass by until that alarm goes off at 4.45am, I relive the happy moments I've had over the past nine days. From my Father's birthday meal to bringing in the New Year by beginning a new reading goal with my girlfriend in bed (we are elderly at heart!) to the far too short roadtrip to Wales to see two of my best mates, it's all gone by way too fast as it always does.
It makes me miss unemployment, although that too has its own consequences. Like a hamster in a wheel - as my income has increased so have my responsibilities and associated payments and financial responsibilities. This year will be my third at my organisation, longer than any other job I've had. I'm paid more than I ever have been yet I feel like I have less money now than when I stacked shelves at Sainsbury's during Covid. Strange how life works like that.
Alas, I'll turn up on time - ready for another day at 6.23am, when my shift officially starts and, provided no miracles, for the next forty odd years too. Depressing or motivating? I'm not sure.
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