Well, here I am having survived being Santa, the gaggle of parents videoing everything their kids did at the nativity, a day of re-writing job descriptions, creating a calendar with family photos for my wife's parents' Christmas present, and in between feeding and watering the kids. A fairly average day, but I am cream crackered and need to go to bed very, very soon.
So, glass of wine in one hand, and bar of chocolate in the other (plus my wife's phone, as she has just called down to me that she'd forgotten it and being seven months pregnant had no wish to traverse our stairwell more than is vital), plus the laundry basket (same reason), I am heading away up the stairs to cloud cookoo land.
Then up at five tomorrow for a 1.5 hour commute, a day writing more job descriptions, and then a meeting planning our organisational publications strategy for the coming year that will grind on inexorably and depressingly until around 9 p.m. at which point I shall make the 1.5 hour return journey, collapse in to bed again and go through the whole rigmarole again the next day.
Why? Oddly enough because I actually love my work and the people I work for and with. Insane, maybe, but I'd rather be doing something I love and that serves a greater end than fattening the wallets of a some already too rich share holders. Hey ho, but then I am just as sad old forty something idealist.
Bon soir, et hon y soit qui mal y pense.