First day back at work didn't quite go to plan. I didn't sleep at all the night before, kept awake by relentless coughing and for the second time in a matter of days my driver didn't show up making me an hour late.
To be certain after standing out in the desert sun trying to fruitlessly hail a cab for an hour on the back of no sleep, the separate pieces numerous cats were dragging in through the automatic doors and across the glossy tiles needed some reassembly.
I wasn't in a great state and was praying for a slow day. My lungs felt like they were full of sand, my head was banging and my guts was starting to act up. The downward spiral had definitely begun.
The funny thing about the downward spiral is that you never quite know where the bottom is. Sometimes you stop short of where you think you might end up, sometimes you go careening past it like a badly signposted turn off.
As my day progressed the latter was definitely the direction I was going, kiddie locks on, the driver now wearing dark glasses and emotionlessly not answering any of my questions.
I still had to try and sort out my accommodation.
Had I known I would start trench warfare between the company and other freelancers I might have just counted myself lucky to have a roof over my head and left the issue well alone. Instead boots were laced up, fatigues donned and battle lines drawn.
It seems I'm not the only one who's had trouble with accommodation and the new policy of no longer providing food for freelancers is a real sticking point. One I completely understand because after a 12 hour shift, an hour to and from work, a wash and any other daily duties, then having to provide food for one's self leaves very little time for sleep. Most hotels don't have facilities for cooking anyway so you're suddenly literally living off takeaways, if you can call that living. Well, 22 year old me could, but 32 year old me likes avocado now.
After some hours of increasing discomfort I finally had a home to go to and in a reflex move informed my coworkers I would be going home early. Back to my intern saviours to stuff everything in a bag and head to my new hotel.
This is where things get a bit blurry. I don't remember the ride to the hotel, but I do remember arriving. I don't remember coming up to my room and didn't even recognise it when I was woken by a call from work this morning. I spent much of the night sweating endlessly and believing myself to be in Turkey breaking cultural norms.
When I did get up today I found clothes strewn about the room, my bag standing upright halfway between the door and the bed and all the lights on. It was only at this point that I took in my surroundings and discovered the bathroom. Handy indeed when you're sick enough to have to sit on the toilet to blow your nose.
To be certain after standing out in the desert sun trying to fruitlessly hail a cab for an hour on the back of no sleep, the separate pieces numerous cats were dragging in through the automatic doors and across the glossy tiles needed some reassembly.
I wasn't in a great state and was praying for a slow day. My lungs felt like they were full of sand, my head was banging and my guts was starting to act up. The downward spiral had definitely begun.
The funny thing about the downward spiral is that you never quite know where the bottom is. Sometimes you stop short of where you think you might end up, sometimes you go careening past it like a badly signposted turn off.
As my day progressed the latter was definitely the direction I was going, kiddie locks on, the driver now wearing dark glasses and emotionlessly not answering any of my questions.
I still had to try and sort out my accommodation.
Had I known I would start trench warfare between the company and other freelancers I might have just counted myself lucky to have a roof over my head and left the issue well alone. Instead boots were laced up, fatigues donned and battle lines drawn.
It seems I'm not the only one who's had trouble with accommodation and the new policy of no longer providing food for freelancers is a real sticking point. One I completely understand because after a 12 hour shift, an hour to and from work, a wash and any other daily duties, then having to provide food for one's self leaves very little time for sleep. Most hotels don't have facilities for cooking anyway so you're suddenly literally living off takeaways, if you can call that living. Well, 22 year old me could, but 32 year old me likes avocado now.
After some hours of increasing discomfort I finally had a home to go to and in a reflex move informed my coworkers I would be going home early. Back to my intern saviours to stuff everything in a bag and head to my new hotel.
This is where things get a bit blurry. I don't remember the ride to the hotel, but I do remember arriving. I don't remember coming up to my room and didn't even recognise it when I was woken by a call from work this morning. I spent much of the night sweating endlessly and believing myself to be in Turkey breaking cultural norms.
When I did get up today I found clothes strewn about the room, my bag standing upright halfway between the door and the bed and all the lights on. It was only at this point that I took in my surroundings and discovered the bathroom. Handy indeed when you're sick enough to have to sit on the toilet to blow your nose.
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