Well, just during the day really. And not every day either because I’m only part-time.
I’ve recently joined the ‘rat-race’ and to my great disappointment it resembles neither a game of Mario Kart nor that mediocre film with Rowan Atkinson. It’s more like a race that children (and adults, who am I kidding) have between their toys. Either you spin around on the spot and collapse at the starting point, or you chug and splutter your way towards the finishing line slower than the conclusion of How I Met Your Mother. Either way, it’s pretty fucking dull.
Anyhow, I’ve been working in Penneys and trying to mentally repress the likely sweatshop origins of the clothes I’m folding and stacking. People ask me how the job is going and I reply with something non-committal like “It’s grand”, because I’m your textbook cocktail of Irish masculinity, brewed from Catholic guilt and a lack of Vitamin D. If I was to elaborate further, I’d compare the act of repeatedly folding and stacking clothes to a really shit puzzle game. A bit like playing Tetris, only there’s no straight line piece to bail you out when everything starts falling apart and instead of that mental Russian tune (which I’ve just learned is based on poem from 1861) I have the distant strains of Shania Twain as my soundtrack. Shit, at least I get paid for it.