Free Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) by Nick Spalding Page B

days off sick in two weeks might do just that.
    You know who I hate? The bloody people who get sick, but come to work anyway.
    They sit and complain about how crap they feel, but also state they had to come in because they’ve got a mountain of work to do that just can’t wait.
    Bollocks.
    You’re not that important, you little shit.
    Someone else could have handled your work load, or it could have waited until you were better!
    What’s more, you’ve now managed to spread your disease through the whole office like a modern day Typhoid Mary. We’ve all caught it and can look forward to a week of sneezes, coughs and headaches.
    If anyone you work with comes in with the flu, cover your mouth with a damp cloth, stand at least ten feet away and threaten to beat them to death with a Kleenex box unless they turn tail and return to their sick beds at once.
     
    To sum up: the best way to run your working life is to accept your position, never let your job take control and always remember you’re there to make money.
    Yes, that is a very mercenary outlook, but how many mercenaries do you know with a stomach ulcer, eh?
     
     

 
     
     
    3.20 am
    19646 Words
     
     
    Good grief!
    Did you hear the cracking noise my back made when I stretched?
    Been sitting here for over nine hours and it’s taking a toll.
    Remember those noisy people outside? They’re long gone now.
    …everything is silent in the watches of the night. We’re all alone.
    If we look out of the window for long enough we might see the occasional cat crossing the street, its fur cast with a strange orange tint from the streetlights overhead. We might see the odd car - someone returning later than they’d intended from a party, or a junior doctor driving to the A&E to start a 36 hour shift.
    But other than that, the world on the other side of the window is quiet.
    Tranquil, you might say.
    …the weather’s calm tonight.
    There’s a slight mist hanging over the street. The kind that leaves traces of dew on your jacket when you walk through it. When you breathe out, a soft plume of cold air forms and hangs around you like a shroud.
    The only sounds are from far off: the low rhythmic rumble of trains passing through the dark - and the plaintive barking of a solitary dog, missing the warmth of hearth and home.
    The beast of the world is snoozing, in those magical hours between closing time and the dawn chorus.
    This is when the slate is wiped clean.
    When the mistakes and errors of yesterday are forgotten and the playing field is reset, ready to begin the game anew tomorrow.
    It’s at times like this you can think , when there are no interruptions and when the quiet of the night makes your mind serene.
     
    In short… it’s pretty fucking boring out there.
    Puts you in mind of a bad romantic comedy - probably starring Jennifer Aniston.
     
    Yawn .
    Did you think that passage sounded atmospheric? Full of poetic description and subtle nuance?
    I couldn’t resist ending it on a gag though, could I?
    It’s a failing of mine. I find it very difficult to be serious, especially in the stuff I write.
    I started out with the best of intentions with that passage: to write a nice descriptive few paragraphs about the world outside, only to ruin it with a gag that wasn’t all that clever anyway.
    The tone may have made you sleepy. After all, it is very late now.
    Try and stick with me as I wind my way towards dawn though, as we’ve got lots more to talk about - including a nasty divorce story that’s squatting at the front of my memory like a big, bug-eyed toad.
     
    I’ve always been a man who likes his sleep and I’m trying to ignore the imperative to slope off to bed and go gently into that dark night.
    I can hear my bed calling to me from across the hall:
    ‘Nick… come to me Nick. Roll the duvet around you and forget the world outside.’
    Evil temptress, she is.
     
    I enjoy my sleep and yet I suffer from insomnia.
    That’s a fairly dreadful irony, isn’t