In which our intrepid hero breaks out one of his favourite gripes, and launches into several others.

I make it plainly obvious—particularly to friends and relatives around the NSW-Queensland border—just how how much I hate daylight saving. For some arbitrary reason, the state government decides to screw with the clocks twice a year, bringing down every ATM in the state for several hours, and further messing with my already pretty messed up circadian rhythms.

Occasionally, they change the dates to deal with some event or other. They started it early for the 2000 Olympics, and they finished a week late this year, because of the Commonwealth Games. This, despite the fact that the only event that daylight saving would affect was the closing ceremony. Bugger it—let Victoria keep it on for an extra week. The rest of us can go back to standard time on the usual date.

One of the things that I’d forgotten this past six months or so is that although standard time makes it easier to get to things on time, it also means that you finish work an hour later. And that last hour drags on. And on. And on. It’s worse than the last hour on election day, standing around sunburnt, exhausted and dehydrated, waiting for the last few punters to dash through, mark their ballots and avoid a $165 fine.

And today has been hell. I had to get up early so I could go an hour out of my way on the way to work to pick up some documents for my boss. A connecting train on the way over there was late. Various complications with said documents meant that I missed the train back into the city, and had to wait 27 minutes for the next one.

I got into the city, started going through the documents and others that went with it. My boss strode in, pulled them out of the open folder on my desk while I was working on them and then walked out the door.

Half an hour later, my boss delivers the first of a stream of abusive calls, complaining that the documents hadn’t been checked. My "excuse" that he’d snatched them from my desk as I was working on them fell on deaf ears; I’d had weeks to do them (untrue—I’d only had most of them for a few days, and that includes the weekend) and I’d been in the office for two hours and had had plenty of time to go through them this morning (also untrue—I’d been out chasing them in the far corners of Sydney that morning, had only got in half an hour previously, and spent most of that time dealing with other tasks, not having been properly apprised of the documents’ importance).

I might also add that we were supposed to go through the ones that I had yesterday afternoon (Sunday, that is), but my boss didn’t bother to get back to me with a time.

But, of course, I’m wrong. I always am.

My flatmate’s also moving out two months early (he decided to tell me after he’d given the real estate agent notice—very fucking considerate of him, my sister says). I’ve applied to do some extra work over the next three months, hoping to get some extra cash so I can pay off some outstanding bills and buy myself a new pair of boots and jeans.

Now I can’t; every single cent—and then some—of the extra cash will have to pay for the other half of the rent now. I’m essentially in the same financial fix as I’ve been for almost the last 18 months.

Add to this family problems I’ve been having of late, and I’m not a happy puppy.

(Yes, Adam, I know that I’m complaining, and it doesn’t do much to attract new readers. Tough. I’m not blogging to attract readers; I’m blogging to keep friends and relatives at home and abroad apprised of the events in my life. If it makes them feel bad, so be it. That’s what passes for my life—I’m the first to admit that it ain’t too entertaining.)