The black dog came around sniffing on Wednesday.
I’ve been working in hero mode for a while now, and I don’t like being a hero. All I want from my job is to be entertained and to be able to pay my mortgage. I don’t want glory or promotion or any of the other testosterone-fuelled hierarchical crap which goes with corporate life. But Aphra has been standing alone against the ravening hoards, fighting them off, and displaying rather a lot of gleaming breast and thigh in the process.
Worse. Not only was I being a hero. I was being trusted to be a hero.
I hate being trusted.
(There’s an aside story here – an acquaintance once said “you do know I can never trust you again, don’t you” to which my silent reply was “good – I never asked to be trusted in the first place”. Please, don’t trust me, I’ll never let you down).
Anyway. Wednesday. There I was. Ravening hoards all around me. Lightsaber in one hand, broadsword in the other. There were even backing singers:
Aph – ah-hah – saviour-of-the-universe
and a scantily clad lovely chirruping
Aph, I love you, but we’ve only got 14 hours to save the universe
Now I don’t know about you, but whenever a scantily clad lovely chirrups “I love you, but we’ve only got 14 hours…” the temptation to make them 14 hours very well spent and let the rest of the universe go hang seems overwhelming.
In my dreams.
So. Aphra the super-hero, with attendant black dog and backing singers.
Fortunately the real super-hero of the piece stepped in and said “there is No Fucking Way that can be done by Tuesday”, so we rebelled and made a stand for sanity.
“Deadlines? Just say ‘no'”.
The thing is, the really truly infuriating thing is, that I still can’t be that voice of sanity for myself in my own life. It always has to be someone else who says it, and the problem was that for the last month or so there’s been me and my imaginary friends and that’s it.
It turns out that the scantily clad lovely has always wanted to be a kennel maid so she’s put on some waterproofs and Sensible Shoes and is taking the dog for a Long Run. The backing singers were just session artists anyway. So I am left – glory be to the goddess – with my entertaining job and my mortgage.