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Saturday, 20 August 2016

In which I'm pissed right off...

Still reeling from the utter devastation of not being able to kiss the life of shite goodbye.
I know, I know, I was happy about getting the other job, but I wasn't really. Who, in their right mind, would welcome getting up at five in the morning to go, alone, to someone's house to tend to the sick and dying for under eight pounds an hour.
Each day consists of working seven a.m. to two p.m. and then four p.m. until ten p.m. and every other weekend.
'But you get a car,' I hear you chorus.
Whoopee! They take it off you if you're off work for more than three days.
'But you won't get bitten/punched/scratched/spat at/kicked every day will you?' I hear you exclaim.
If that's all I've got to look forward to I'm off to jump off Beachy Head.
Oh, that's right. I can't get there I don't have a car any more.
And I must try not to complain. I gave the Admiral a horrible day yesterday.

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