Recess

In a day's recess, one has no interest in work - it's recess. One has to have his usual, terminal arguments with the husband of one's mother. One tries to make contact with one's best man from college, only in vain. One has a feeling which is very difficult to express - very similar to the gas in one's alimentary canal. It will go, and when it does, there will be such relief.

There's work to do - not so much the work at one's workplace, but work that one needs to do for general survival. Where one lives, bureaucracy is a matter largely looked upon as incidental, something to be circumvented, leveraged or both. This is not really to speak like a true bust of figure standing on moral high ground. What is easy to do is prise one's parent, bank, employer and government; to swipe around one's credentials and get done with the living.

There's not even the butt to scratch. There is just acrid gas waiting to get up and out of the gut.