Tuesday has got to be the least important day of the week, it’s just a nothing kind of a day, it’s the magnolia day of the week. It’s a filler in day and yes it is better than Monday, but at least we hate Mondays, it elicits an emotion. Wednesday is the middle of the week, you know that when you hit Wednesday the weekend is in sight, lunch time means you are over half way through the week. Now Thursday basks in the glory of Friday, reaching Thursday means there is just one day left of the week. As you feast on your 4 hot wings from the hot deli counter Thursday lunch time you realise that you have less than one days work left that week (no one actually does anything constructive Friday afternoon and so it is discounted from the calculations). Everyone likes Friday, it’s Euro millions roll over day, Friday night is the boy’s night, it’s the let my hair down night because you know you’ve got a lie in on Saturday.
I’m not going into massive detail as we all look forward to the weekend. Friday night is for your mates, Saturday is out with the better half (movies or dinner) and Sunday is for recovery and family stuff. It’s a plan, it works, its not broke so don’t try and fix it. The weekend plan is like your wife/partner/other half plans if you deviate from the plan you are in big trouble. A man is a simple creature and can not do all the important stuff in life and manage to recalculate a woman’s plan in the same decade the algorithm is just impossible to compute. Leave it. Anyway today was a particularly magnolia day with just a hint of beige.
Here’s a thing, why is it when I listen to the radio and they have nurses or teachers or dustman or fireman on they talk as if they only do their jobs to help people. As if they don’t actual get paid at all. And when they go on strike it always to protect the service or ensure they can do right by the public. They are all part of a union and the union is there to do one thing and one thing only, to protect its members. It’s as if these people are plucked from the real world at a young age, identified as one of god’s creatures, soft fluffy and so cute and cuddly, because they are so so special. And they grow up in a scrummy place and all they want is for you to be happy. What complete rubbish. They are human beings like the rest of us, they eat and drink like the rest of us, they don’t survive on sun shine and happy thoughts. They cut me up on the motorway like everyone else; they push into queues like mere mortals, they get hammered down the pub at the weekends and use bad language like the rest of us. And god forbid they even fart in bed like the supposed baby eating, bile spitting, granny selling, knuckle dragging (not sure about truck drivers) satanic half breeds they presume work in the private sector.
The public sector has strong unions, lucky them and up until last week a job working for the government was really secure, plus the pension was nice with the odd knighthood thrown in for good measure, but that doesn’t make them all nice people. Some are good and some are rubbish at their job. So you’re a cleaner in a factory one week and the next you’re a porter in a hospital. What happens to you? Is there a procedure to increase your compassion gland or is there a course of pills to reduce your private sector hump and club foot. Overnight you’re a better person all round, someone who combs his hair and helps elderly ladies across the road. That’s a serious induction day. Some people care and some only care about themselves, but please don’t try to say they aren’t looking out for number one like the rest of us. Let’s face it you’ve got a nice shift pattern, someone’s trying to change it to make you work a bit harder and you don’t like it. Fine that’s okay but don’t lie to me, I’m not six years old, it’s my money that goes in your pocket every month and you can damn well earn it. Rant over.
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