It's been a good week at home so far. There was a very grand wedding, between Lamb and some milk magnates, I've started getting my new flat ready, my beloved Market Street flat is coming on well, Van Nev has been a rutting stallion and has even gone up to 70mph, my new PA/flatmate has been most useful, I've enjoyed some good beer and have rarely ended the night sober, I have a drinks globe in my house, a pretty girl smiled at me in the street, the weather has been absolutely lovely, and there's been lots of football on the TV. Even the funeral of a great-aunt wasn't so bad, as I got to see a number of family members.
So why am I in a foul, stinking, dirty dog of a mood? Because I popped into the office today and was told I might be going offshore on Friday. Meaning my weekend trip to Ireland, to reunite with the lovely Rebecca and see Leonard Cohen in concert, would be cancelled. And meaning that I have had just one week at home. That makes six this year.
I like my job, but I like my life too. And don't believe in sacrificing the latter for the former.