Spin Cycle

I'm not sure when weekends became something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

I still have that sense, towards the end of a week, of Something Nice on the way, the prospect of a rest, things to look forward to. This doesn't tally whatsoever with the way I spend my time between Friday evening and Monday morning, but it's still there, for historical reasons. And there is a pause, at least momentarily, from the unrelenting onslaught that is work in a small company in the middle of a recession, with slightly fewer people than there should be.

I had worked away since Tuesday morning. Missed the children - horribly, wrenchingly - but secretly took pleasure in the quiet calm of a hotel. No mess, no meals to prepare, the absence of any domestic responsibilities. Keep the light on to read when I want to, no running out of hot water, no sport on the TV. No-one sneering contemptuously at me. No-one telling me I'm boring. Stupid. Unattractive. Not working hard enough.

I have all that to look forward to when I get home.

The weekend began more frantically than I'd like with a pick up from the train station and straight out to dinner at a gastro-pub. The other couple are in the first flush of second-time-around, inordinately pleased with themselves for having managed to snare each other before the the looming milestone of 50th birthdays. They are still in the Trying Hard phase - he in new shirt with packet-creased not quite ironed to invisibility, she in tottering cerise suede heels (despite the rain), a slightly-too-low sparkly top and some glittering eye shadow. I, just from London and tired in my work suit, could not hold a candle to her. As was pointed out to me, later.

The food was rich, sickly, over-complicated. They were desperate to impress us with their fascinating cosmopolitan lifestyle. Including, this week, a trip - London! - no less. Woop. Suitably bowled over, I obediently listened to their story of a Having A Drink In Guy Ritchie's Pub. It's just like an ordinary pub, you know.

Yes, I do know.

The men moved on to What's Wrong With The NHS, while I was doomed to endure Did You See The Woman On Oprah Who Had Her Face Torn Off By A Pet Chimpanzee. You have to feel, really feel, for the chimpanzee, don't you.

Well, actually, no. I'd be more inclined to be on the side of the woman who has no eyes, no nose, no lips, because an angry animal tore them off in a terrifying attack. However the whole episode has such a ridiculous only-in-America feel to it that I'm ashamed to say I don't feel, really feel, anything much at all about it. I realised when I got home that I'd left my coat at the pub, and haven't had time to go back this weekend and collect it.

Saturday comprised the usual driving/laundry/tidying-up/cleaning combo. Working away is something to be enjoyed in the moment, as it also means not being able to keep on top of everything at home, so that was Saturday gone. I worked hard, bloody hard, to return the house to something approaching a normal state for a family home. I did this by myself as an invitation to corporate hospitality at the England rugby game had beckoned. "No point in both of us going". Quite so.

Today was even worse. It seems that I don't properly understand our sector, or indeed our own business within it. That when I am at work I am not managing my time effectively or focusing on the right things. That when I am at home I am not keeping it nice, and not being warm and welcoming. You bet I'm fucking not. Could be something to do with the 80+ hour weeks I'm working at the moment.

I don't like the way I behave when I have am listening to stuff like that. I am afraid of the emotions I feel - the anger, the rage, the distress. Most of all, I am afraid of the fact that I feel like this and I am still here. It's worse than a hamster in a wheel - I'm a rat in a trap. I try to blank the way I feel because I can't see a way out.

Meanwhile, since returning from holiday in August, I am doubled up several times a week with cramps, tummy aches, upsets, sickness, dashes to the loo. Maybe it's some kind of infection. Or maybe it's my body trying to tell me it can't stomach this situation much longer.