I have just spent the entire damn day schlepping to, from and around a post-apocalyptic, and possibly radioactive, mud-floored, open-air storage park. A delightful day of having one’s fingernails bloodied and wrecked by chains, ratchet straps and sharp edges, almost getting crushed by my ship-of-the-damned while jiggling it off a dilapidated trailer strapped precariously to an almost equally dilapidated and delicate Ford Transit Transporter seemingly constructed of tissue-paper and cocktail sticks for the sole purpose of assisting in losing one’s damage deposit (I did). It could have been a lot worse without the help of a mate, but sadly after today’s fiasco he’s almost certainly NOT going to be a future first mate. They never do once they cotton on to my Captain Bligh potential.
It’s made me come to the realisation that manual labour is totally rubbish.
I was made to be a wandering, story-telling minstrel. With a goodly and endless supply of Garibaldi biscuits. And a Learjet. (Or one of these). Crewed by Valkyries.