Basket.

A fine start to the week, as the heavens took one look at my puny umbrella, cackled and then proceeded to open in the heaviest downpour we've had for a while. The result? I barely dried off in time for the first lesson. Following today will be three meetings in three days, on top of which 81 essays await marking. It certainly is shaping up to be a wonderful week.

I've been told I'm a workaholic. It seems to be an assertion of some truth, because I have found that the harder a job gets, the more I seem to like it. In JC I soon started enjoying later and later nights making CCA displays ship-shape in school, found a rhythm to the endless Maths questions I made myself get through, but unfortunately never managed to ever "get" Economics. In NS I learnt to become One with my dockets, a desperation born of procrastination. Now, I'm still liking my job, despite everything I've said and certain things I've done.

I think I just enjoy the satisfaction of a job efficiently completed. Maths paper completed, answers checked, mistakes noted. Docket perused, amendments made, non-amendable mistakes properly recorded for auditors' benefit. Test marked, looked through once more, marks recorded, answer scheme typed, printed and sent for duplicating... sit back and enjoy the moment. I am, however, an acolyte of procrastination, even these days. I can put off something again and again and again when it would probably take a fraction of an hour to complete. Then I finish it and ask myself, "Why the hell didn't I do this sooner?" But I simply adore being efficient, being piled with work and finishing it bit by bit by bit until I put on the final touch and feel so content that everything is complete and ready to go.

So what am I exactly working for? This nebulous sense of achievement? This perception of completeness? Usually I say I do something because it needs to be done - and usually, that's good enough for me and everyone else.