I flapped open my umbrella on the doorstep. The sky was deep and dark and hurling icy rain past the orange lamp posts.
What a day to be feeling better. I adjusted my gloves, swung the umbrella over my head and set out for work.
A short while later, with wet shoes and a residual cough, I shook out the rain from the folds of the brolly, pushed through the revolving door and headed through reception for the second time this year. Work.
It's funny how the lights look so inviting from the cloud of damp drizzle that pervades a January morning. The warm glow of a heated office, the smell of coffee and the promise of a comfortable chair all filter through the mist like the songs of sirens to sailors... or, if you like, the glimpse of a tiny moon where Alderaan used to be...
Well you get my drift.
I wonder why we do this. It's pretty easy to lose sight of the fact that work is intended to fuel our lives rather than shape our identities. In truth, it is actually supposed to work for us just as much as we do for it. Like every contract, it's a two-way process.
Yet somehow, these places catch us in their tractor beams and suck us in until we're wearing storm troopers' uniforms and running awkwardly with blasters through polished corridors.
... yes alright, classicists... polished corridors, or indeed, getting devoured by monstrous mermaids who can't half sing...
I slipped into my chair and logged on with a weary ctrl+alt+delete.
"Are you feeling any better?" asked my manager.
Not really, no.
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