Agh. I wish the heat would end already. (I know you shouldn't say that, but I feel awful when the weather is too hot.) Right now, it's over 27 degrees centigrade in the shade here.
Work is as gruelling as ever, and the heat isn't making it any easier.
This week's "wtf?": I've literally beaten carpets until my hands bled. The friction from the carpet*
ripped part of the skin off the middle joints of two fingers on my left hand and one on my right. It hurts like buggery, especially when the scabs break as I bend my fingers.
The machinery I use on daily basis has decided to work against me, and I swear there's some secret book of rules governing cleaning equipment, something along the lines of "Nowe we are come to the fell beaste that is yclepen the scrubber-drier. And lo, there is muche lore about thise machyne, and there is rulewerk thereto.
#1: Thy shalt, when thy pusheth the scrubber-drier, see that itte wilt go not where thou wantest it to go, but in the direkshoun that is of the leaste gaine. Thou wilt see that itte slammeth into doores of chambers wherein sitte men of much import, or else itte assaulteth the potted plantynges thatte line the halles.
#2: When thy under thine breathe sayeth "Buggerie" to curse the scrubber-drier, thy wilt next lifte thine gaze to see the janitor, who wille give thee a gaze of curiositie.
#3: When thy attempteth to pushe the scrubber-drier up the steepe incline thatte is the ramp to the nexte floore, thy wilt finde thatte thisse beaste weyteth now a full tonne more. Itte knowest when thy muste pushe it, and itte wilt spare no tricke to cause miserye. (I wilt have the reader knowe thatte thise wickeyde machyne weighes over three tymes mine weightte.)"
(Ack, I can't keep that up for very long. My heartfelt apologies to medievalists/Chaucerhathblog fans for the heartless butchering of fake Middle English.)
So, in modern English: the scrubber-drier is the current bane of my existence, and I dislike it intensely. That fact that the hallways with their south-facing glass walls are boiling hot even in the morning adds to my misery.
Also: I'm less than impressed with my shift boss' sudden decision to stick me with *two* areas instead of my regular one. Granted, there isn't all that much work needing to be done, but the areas are large, meaning I have to run around even more than usual. Add to this the fact that I'm terribly bad at getting enough fluids or listening to my body, and you have a recipe for disaster. I've decided to stick with this until the end of the month, and then I'll tell a little white lie about uni work (actually, it isn't a lie: I do have lectures in August, just not full-time) and say I can't work in August. I have to get some rest in, otherwise I'll collapse in September.
There was something else I intended to mention, but I've forgot what it was. Again. *sigh*
Here, have a link
to a faintly disturbing and boytouchy clip from Lipstick on Your Collar
. I say "faintly disturbing" because there's a cadre of old men feeling up Ewan McGregor.*In a way, at any rate. On the backswing, my knuckles brushed along the carpet fast enough for the artificial fibers to give me friction burn. Keep it up for long enough and the skin will break. Ow.