Frustration

My current job leaves me with far too much free time. For some, this is a luxury. We get paid good salaries to sit around and do... nothing. This is fine, in theory, but there are only so many mindless things you can do whilst doing nothing, and I promise you even facebook loses its appeal after a while. So I sit. I've been in my current position for eight months. I have got better at doing nothing, but not much. I pass the time on instant messenger, talking to colleagues that are sitting less than 10 feet away from me, just because the tap-tap-clacking of the keyboard gives off the air of importance, of existence, of meaning. I send emails to old friends and stare hopefully at my mailbox, wishing for that flash of a reply. I plan holidays. I plan holidays I can take, and holidays I will never be able to take but I plan them anyway. I look at menus for restaurants all around the city, planning dates I will never go on with people I have never met. I do all the normal, mundane, administrative tasks one can do from a desktop. I pay bills, I check statements, I change contracts. I shop. I shop for presents. I shop for myself. I make bids on ebay, but only for items I know I'll be outbid for and so will never ever have to actually buy. I get a thrill from driving up prices on pointless items that didn't need to be owned the first time round, never mind the second or the third. I check heatworld.com and read about big brother, about the so-called celebrities who seem to spend their lives falling out of clubs and into cars, or brunching in cafes and pubs that must exist in this city, but that I will never have the misfortune to stumble upon. I occasionally decide I need a hobby. I learn languages, I train myself online in skills I will never need. I contemplate doing a masters; part-time or distance learning? I do my make-up. I drink more tea. Sometimes I get tea for other people. Sometimes just for myself. Occasionally the phone rings. I answer it, yet find myself generally unable to answer whatever question is being asked of me. I daydream about a life in high heels. I think about what it would be like to work in the city. I think about men. I wander how long I should leave it until getting my hair bleached again, how long dare I let the roots grow before finally giving in and subjecting myself to that sickening smell and exaggerated gestures of sweep fringe and layering. I wonder whether anyone has noticed that my knickers are visible above my jeans. I contemplate lunch. I check the news, I use this to remember my own mortality. I try to empathise with people I have nothing in common with and who I will never understand. I think about past lovers/friends/colleagues. I look them up on social networking sites. I take pleasure in the fact that my life is probably more interesting. It isn't. But they will think it is.

I escape this life in one week. I will miss it. I must never forget it. And I must never let it get like this again.