Once there was a little girl who decided to get a job in a shop to get some pennies. The pennies soon began to overflow into pounds and the girl was very happy. But then one day someone mentioned the word ‘management’ into her ear and she was blinded by the workbooks and the jangling keys that made her feel like a stationery jailer. The Faustian bargain involved working Saturdays. She thought nothing of it, she cared not for relaxing or spending time doing equal amounts of nothing. So she got her head down and signed the contract (it wasn’t in goats blood, but I’m sure that the fact it was in red ink was because it was politically correct) and then it was done. Seven years of Saturdays. She would weep but she didn’t have the energy to do so. But she would swim along with her sorrows in the tastiest of Gin.
Then she decided it was to be no longer. She would rip the word Saturday out of her contract. And she did. Entwined in her being she’s a little scared that the pounds will soon turn back to pennies and she’ll have torturous days of doing nothing which is not what she’s planned. But she’ll still have the keys to jangle, but more time for the Gin.
In all honesty I haven’t had that much time to think about it and it won’t sink it till after a few weeks because I’m so busy. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.