How times change
This time four years ago I worked in the City. Not just any old city; I worked in the City. London.
I worked for a management consultancy. People paid £1,400.00 per day for my time. Of course I saw only a fraction of it, but even that fraction was a substantial salary, with benefits on top. My home base was a building with a basement restaurant, which I rarely used because normally I was doing client work.
But four years ago the World Cup was staged (jointly) in South Korea and Japan. That's the World Cup, not the World Series. Because of the time difference the matches started early, around breakfast time, so for the duration of the tournament we'd get in early, drink and then spend the rest of the day sobering up. Perhaps, if an early kick off didn't appeal we'd get some work done early before sloping off to check out the Italians, or the Portuguese.
My employers back in those days had seen the writing on the wall and, figuring that we'd all throw a collective sickie if forced to work as if the World Cup were not on, sent out plaintive requests that we not 'overload the servers' with internet activity and use the basement facilities in 'moderation'. Beer was made available and a giant screen set up.
That's how I came to be watching, perched on a bar stool with a beer in my hand in the basement of my office when that fat, ugly Brazilian cheat (Rivaldo) dropped like a sack of spuds at the corner post. I was there to see the Italians get ripped off by some spineless official who knew his duty was to get the hosts through at what ever cost to his own integrity and self-respect.
The tournament officially began tonight, but in my little green corner of the world it really kicks off tomorrow, at 2.00pm when England meet Paraguay. I'll be at work - doing the four hour shift I have to do every second Saturday. I wouldn't mind so much except that the radio in the office only picks up FM and the only sports station I'm prepared to listen to goes out on medium wave. So that means I'll be packing up my little Roberts and carting it off to work.
I have a roof over my head, food on the table, a closet full of clothes (many of them I never wear - and not only because they don't fit. I've got a red dress I'll never wear again unless my daughter asks me to accompany her to the Oscars.). I have a healthy, happy, extraordinarily well-adjusted child. As far as I'm aware I'm fit and healthy. I have all my own teeth (not so much as a filling!).
I've paid all my debts. I owe this year's council tax which I'm paying in instalments and I'll be billed for the second half of the water when that's due. I have a moderate sum outstanding on the credit card and my current account is in the black. My house is a tip, but since the lazy fat bastard still lives here, that's not something I can fix (fixing that is something that isn’t humanly possible).
What I hanker for is ... being able to walk out of the office at lunch time and pick up that electronic gizmo I've read about without having to wonder whether I can afford it that month ... using cosmetics of choice rather than those within budget or going without ... being able to think realistically about upgrading the house or the car or the TV or the stereo or clothes washer or the fridge ... getting the central heating system serviced ... replacing the windows in the old part of the house and the front door with its two inch gap at the bottom before next winter.
Damn. Some of these things aren't the idle whimsy of an unreconstructed over-earning dilettante.
I worked for a management consultancy. People paid £1,400.00 per day for my time. Of course I saw only a fraction of it, but even that fraction was a substantial salary, with benefits on top. My home base was a building with a basement restaurant, which I rarely used because normally I was doing client work.
But four years ago the World Cup was staged (jointly) in South Korea and Japan. That's the World Cup, not the World Series. Because of the time difference the matches started early, around breakfast time, so for the duration of the tournament we'd get in early, drink and then spend the rest of the day sobering up. Perhaps, if an early kick off didn't appeal we'd get some work done early before sloping off to check out the Italians, or the Portuguese.
My employers back in those days had seen the writing on the wall and, figuring that we'd all throw a collective sickie if forced to work as if the World Cup were not on, sent out plaintive requests that we not 'overload the servers' with internet activity and use the basement facilities in 'moderation'. Beer was made available and a giant screen set up.
That's how I came to be watching, perched on a bar stool with a beer in my hand in the basement of my office when that fat, ugly Brazilian cheat (Rivaldo) dropped like a sack of spuds at the corner post. I was there to see the Italians get ripped off by some spineless official who knew his duty was to get the hosts through at what ever cost to his own integrity and self-respect.
The tournament officially began tonight, but in my little green corner of the world it really kicks off tomorrow, at 2.00pm when England meet Paraguay. I'll be at work - doing the four hour shift I have to do every second Saturday. I wouldn't mind so much except that the radio in the office only picks up FM and the only sports station I'm prepared to listen to goes out on medium wave. So that means I'll be packing up my little Roberts and carting it off to work.
I have a roof over my head, food on the table, a closet full of clothes (many of them I never wear - and not only because they don't fit. I've got a red dress I'll never wear again unless my daughter asks me to accompany her to the Oscars.). I have a healthy, happy, extraordinarily well-adjusted child. As far as I'm aware I'm fit and healthy. I have all my own teeth (not so much as a filling!).
I've paid all my debts. I owe this year's council tax which I'm paying in instalments and I'll be billed for the second half of the water when that's due. I have a moderate sum outstanding on the credit card and my current account is in the black. My house is a tip, but since the lazy fat bastard still lives here, that's not something I can fix (fixing that is something that isn’t humanly possible).
What I hanker for is ... being able to walk out of the office at lunch time and pick up that electronic gizmo I've read about without having to wonder whether I can afford it that month ... using cosmetics of choice rather than those within budget or going without ... being able to think realistically about upgrading the house or the car or the TV or the stereo or clothes washer or the fridge ... getting the central heating system serviced ... replacing the windows in the old part of the house and the front door with its two inch gap at the bottom before next winter.
Damn. Some of these things aren't the idle whimsy of an unreconstructed over-earning dilettante.
posted by Enyo @ 10:49 pm
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