I'm still not having fun at work. I feel on edge. Each time my boss or someone senior to me wants to talk to me I steel myself for a potential bollocking.
My self esteem is low a lot of the time. I especially worry with the time I have off work and the fact I sometimes end up going in late or working from home.
Still it's not all bad. The two new guys we have for six months are awesome. S--- is a bright, smart, funny person and skilled at her trade. D--- is a quiet guy with a shy smile who likewise seems to be able to do his job. So that part at least is excellent. S--- even laughed at my recalling an obscure piece of political trivia. She called me Mikeypedia.
But ... that sense of unease is still there. Still hanging over me. I suppose it didn't help that my guts flared up and led me to do one of those explosive efforts that look like a Pro Hart painting where he'd thrown brown paint at a canvas from a low flying Cessna. Naturally it went well above the water line and even onto the riser itself, the plastic riser in place to lift me higher and higher so I don't bend when I shit. It's never fun being at work when you feel shit house and indeed nearly get shit into the house (or office) because it nearly made it out of the fucking bowl.
Oh well, perhaps it will be better tomorrow. I hope so. At least I got the tyre fixed. The puncture was so bad the sidewall had been ripped asunder. I had to get a completely new tyre. But as it got fitted I tooled across the road to a nice cafe and sat and read my schlocky book about freaks as I yummed down a toasted ham and cheese croissant.
So ... why do I have a schlocky book about freaks? Well, thanks in part to having been both a cub and a scout (1), I like to be prepared. So I keep a couple of books in the car to read in case I am stuck somewhere. One of them is a book about freaks. It's from the same series of schlocky books that cover famous murders or trials, or super scandals. It's all gloriously tabloid-esq and utterly lacking in any evidential mechanisms such as footnotes or endnotes. You have to take it all with a grain of salt.
The freaks book was actually a bit sad. There was a section about the deliberate manufacture of freaks from ancient through modern times. Where normal children were subjected to horrific injuries and deliberate malformations in order to provide entertaining freaks. Mostly for the benefit of wealthy people, many of whom who had freak collections. Yes, the 1 per cent were literally corrupting the bodies of the poor for their own amusement. Of course as noted the book was light on proof so I am presuming some of it is exaggeration, distortion, or falsehood. But I will look up some of the historical figures mentioned to see if the book was at all close to the mark.
But, yes, work. It's not pleasant. I am not enjoying it. I don't have that buzz of 'I am doing good' but rather the anti-buzz of 'I am being watched or judged'.
It's just so ... fucking ... high school. Twenty two years on and I am still feeling like shit in the place where I am forced to be. Hooray!
(1) That didn't last that long. My recollection is that I got asked to leave. I could be wrong. I could have made that decision. That's the marvellous thing about memory. It's so ... plastic.