Left Behind

I call him Raoul.


Most people would have realised by now that I wasn't on the plane carrying the missus and my replacement to sunnier climes. So much for all that rushing about and getting the travel insurance and notifying Mindef.

I'm here because of a hint of a print job. A rushed print job, if I may add. All that's left is for the people in charge of the project (who are now sitting around in an office wondering what the hell the sound they heard was, what the hell the bits of gooey, brown and smelly stuff splattered all over the walls are and why the hell isn't the fan working) to get off their butts and actually give us the go-ahead. Otherwise, it's going to be a pretty interesting next six days when the job does come in, and Nic and I find ourselves spending the nights at the printers'.

Or not, if the the job doesn't come in, and I get to take the next few days off.

Why am I still here? To put it simply: greed.

And necessity.

Rush jobs may be the bane of everyone in my profession, but they're also the quickest ways to improving the health of any of our bank accounts (thanks to a little thing we like to call the rush job surcharge, or as I call it, the equipment upgrade enrichment fund). So while I may work myself halfway into a newly-opened bottle of bourbon, it will be well paid for from the job.

That's why I'm still here.

And still waiting for someone to feed me.