Working one day a week

My real job (the one that pays me money, not like writing or painting) has slowed right down. We usually have a slowdown in December and into the new-year but this year the busy period wasn’t as busy as usual and the slowdown has come early and has lasted longer than usual.
I always feel that there is a disconnect between work and the rest of my life, but it is even stronger now that I’m working only one day a week.
I found myself on Monday morning going through a half-forgotten routine to get ready for work and then being plagued by doubts as I drove in. Was I even supposed to go in that day? Then I arrived, and walking through the front door was like going through some strange science fiction portal. I found myself in a place I knew intimately but which had no connection to me.
I did my duties in a kind of a daze. Only a part of my mind was engaged in what I was doing. Another part was outside, dispassionately observing. I thought that this would make a good subject for a blog.
Then this morning (Wednesday) I tried to remember what I had thought about. It was hard to bring back the idea for this post. It’s like my Monday head doesn’t talk to my regular self and even now I can’t clearly recall the feeling that inspired this. The sense of being drunk or drugged or not quite there seems to be confined to Mondays and I can’t access it the rest of the time.
I probably shouldn’t post this. I fear that I have probably let out more than I should, and the nice men in the white coats will be here any minute to take me away. What the hell. The whole point of this blog was to let people know who I am and how I think. If I leave out anything too awkward it won’t be real, or meaningful.



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