Ahhh, another day in paradise.

So it's Sunday night, 9pm. I should be sleeping because there's a Grand Prix at 3.45am, but I can't be bothered. That's right, I'd get up at 3.45am for motor racing. A man's gotta have priorities. But there's gonna be one nasty side-effect... 7.30am start at the office tomorrow. 7.30am start every day of the week, in fact. Why do I torture myself like this, seriously? 7.30am starts are the devil. I've never been a morning person and I never will be a morning person. I can totally imagine myself as one of those 40-year-olds who cannot function in the morning without their first tablet, coffee and cigarette...

Seriously, the only way I can get to work on time in the morning is to get out of bed, plug in my iPod and blast myself with loud music until all of my faculties make themselves available. Trust me, you haven't experienced ironing until you've done it to the tune of Murder on the Dancefloor.

Anyway, what's the latest?

Well, I bought vegemite scrolls on the way to work on Friday. f**K they were good. I swear, Vegemite is my crack. Brown, pungent, spreadable... no, not that crack. Get your mind out of the gutter.

I guess that's a good segue to the real point of this blog...

I'm over work.

I used to pride myself on the randomness of my life, the unpredictability of it all. But since I took a full-time job, I have to be in the same place at the same time doing the same thing five days a week. And what a place it is...

I work at a desk. It's a vast, spacious, white desk. Completely non-descript. There's a computer, with a nice, shiny, new flat-screen monitor to go with it. It's a nice enough computer, but it's hard to appreciate its beauty when its sole purpose is to pixelate the daily agony of working life in Rosny Park. I also have a mouse, a keyboard, a calulator on my desk. Even a desk calendar. Just behind the calendar is my side of the cubicle wall. It's also non-descript, with two pieces of cartridge paper the only adornments in an otherwise drab sea of grey material. With suitable lack of fanfare, they carry all the rostering information I deem necessary to get through the working week.

Look to your left. There's Andrea, my team leader. Nice lady, Andrea. Got pissed at a family bbq and broke two ribs last week. Funny girl. Reminds me of my mum, actually. But I'm not sure she believes that I'm gay. How many times can you say The Golden Girls in a 'What are you up to tonight?' answer before somebody gets wind of your sexuality?

Actually, I was talking to Andrea yesterday when I spotted a visitor to the office. Visualize him, a sweaty man in a too tight high-visibility shirt who had come to check the smoke alarms. How on earth can a man be so sweaty when it's 16 degrees celsius outside? Jesus. We don't care about him and his lazy left eye though, the only thing we care about is what he's holding...

Smoke, IN A CAN.

That's right...

SMOKE IN A CAN.

Can you say more fun than a pants full of ferrets?

Imagine the havoc you could wreak. Every time work gets too shit to bear, you just take out the can, spray a liberal amount of the stuff near a smoke detector and scream 'OH MY GOD FIRE!!!'. Or, for the more subtle among us, 'Can you smell smoke?', followed by 'OH MY f**kING GOD THERE'S A FIRE!!!'. Or, if you're feeling particularly adventurous, 'OH MY GOD WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!'.

Then, all you have to do is slip the can back into your manbag and file calmly to the nearest fire exit before taking the rest of the afternoon off.

Sounds like a plan...

Maybe tomorrow won't be so bad after all.