Burn it to the ground

The jobcentre have found me a vacancy. It's completely outside my travel area, the pay is crap, and the company are infamous for screwing employees. Oh and the job description is meaningless. Tomorrow will mostly be taken up with the pointless interview.

John S told me a story last time we met. His jobcentre had a specialist in finding vacancies for people like John with disabilities or injuries. John has a 'war wound' from his naval service - a leg with shattered bones held together with metal pins. It means he can't walk far or fast.

Of course, he's also a respected artist with a master's degree in art theory, and a background in electrical engineering and carpentry.

For such a man, the specialist took six weeks to find a 'suitable vacancy'. Nighttime Security Guard in a warehouse.

Lots of walking, some running, occasionally fighting with intruders. Nothing related to art or it's theory, nothing relavent to wires or wood.
Tonight was another gig by Strict Machines. There's not many bands who can fill fourty minutes with twenty seven songs, but they manage. As before, the mood was one of dutiful listening at the start, building to rapturous applause after the second encore. And as before, Simon F was there, being drunk, philosophical, and warm.

Drunk enough to let me french kiss him in the interval, philosophical enough to raise intelligent epistemological points I could disagree with in the rain outside, and warm enough that I miss not spending another night with him.

He's too busy to be with me tonight. H is too busy to see me at the weekend. I'm too busy to write a decent song. I don't mind being rushed off my feet, so long as it's for something interesting or worthwhile.
Oh yes. Gallifrey One has published both my reviews. I seem to be in a minority in disliking Father's Day, and a majority in disliking The Long Game.

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