Working Weekend

It being a Sunday, and almost 3pm (as I start to type this), I am cream crackered (as the saying goes). I only work 16 hours a week, but half of those hours fall on a Sunday when I work the 6 -2 shift. There aren't any buses so early in the morning, so I have to leave the house by 5.20am at the latest if I am to get there in plenty of time before my shift starts. That means a 4.30am alarm call. *mutters darkly*

Now, I'm not a morning person at the best of times, and Sundays are traditionally the day where you are supposed to get a lie-in, so it's safe to say that I don't really like working a Sunday. The shift itself is fine; I have plenty to do without being rushed, so the time passes swiftly, plus I work with a great colleague who likes a giggle, and like me, will get everything done and not moan about it. Barring the odd problem here and there, the shift runs like clockwork every week. No, the shift isn't the problem. it's the day.

Sundays are manic at my house, even without spending half the day at work. There's the roast lunch to prepare and tidy up from (the hubby does the cooking now that I work, but the clearing up is down to me), the general pick-up-after-the-kids-and-cats that has to be done several times a day, the washing and ironing of school uniforms ready for the following day, kicking the teenager up the butt to get him to have a bath, the bathing of daughter followed by weekly nit inspection... the chores seem endless. By the time I get home I am so tired that the thought of having to get all of this done makes me groan.

Work should be banned on Sundays, I reckon.*nods*

I works in the Spar, like, innit.

Afterthought: Come to think of it, ironing should be banned too. Wrinkles should permanently be in fashion. *nods again*