The Whistling Wind Chapter 2: Work Shy, Not

Work Shy, Not

After posting the above blog, the following morning, 14th April 2009. I’m in my bed looking at the ceiling, feeling bored. When ring, ring, ring. That’s unusual, 9:56 a.m.

I’m not sure what to do with my unemployed day. I'm fed up with life, and I get a call from a withheld number. I answer, ‘Hello.’

An excited salesman’s voice extends greetings, ‘Hi there, could I speak to Fitzroy? It’s Alan from Breeze Employment.’

Still tired after a restless night, fed up because I didn’t know what to do with my time and had no interest in work, I replied, ‘Fitzroy speaking.’

Barely awake, being disturbed by the call, with a bitter morning taste in my mouth and a lump in my eyes, a lump of matter blocking my vision. I could hear him babble something about a job.

Stopping his speedy chatter, I interrupted, ‘Sorry mate, I’m not interested; I’ve sold all my tools.’

With a surprised tone, Alan curiously enquired, ‘Why have you done that, mate?’

My reply was sharp as if I were in a speeding police car taking a bend and as loud as a foghorn, like a ballistic missile; I was direct to the point, then I exploded with a bellow, ‘You don’t get paid.’

I hung up the phone without waiting for a goodbye.

That’s not like me.

There would be a time, I’d try to fit it into my working day or pass the work to a mate. Looking at the four walls in my third-floor two-bedroom flat was better than working for nothing.

A person who is able and willing to work feels isolated from the pleasures of society if they cannot trust members of the public to uphold what is a moral right: the right to have means and access to a fair share of natural resources when the labour is done. Having a tool that is used to overpower another is inhumane.

I can no longer take part in this game, economics.

Consequently, I am bored as the day is long and broke as a bank that has just been robbed. This isn’t a joke. I feel empathy for men and women alike.

I do, as my mind wants, nothing at all, but most of all, write when I never write a word. In the following chapter, we go back to my childhood to understand today.