Well I have now done a total of 5 days at the Fish Factory as a middle size fish, 3 days last week and 2 days this week. At this pace I'll be retired just after nuclear disarmament takes place. It's like a constant drip of water, or rather a constant flowing overhang from Niagara Falls. I'm sure I’ve made a few mistakes and am likely to make more mistakes. My time is not my own. I don't have the luxury of just sitting still and getting on with the gutting like I used to do. Now I just wait for the fish to come dropping out of the sky to keep me occupied. The thing is, it's not just dropping, it's a bloody downpour. I get into the Factory and don't know where to start or what I should do. I leave the Fish Factory and find I'm juggling twenty flaming daggers and with the feeling I've forgotten something and I'm not pulling my weight. My weight now days being a little more considerable than what it has been. I sent a text to Sparkling and said I was likely to have a nervous breakdown with it all. Other middle fishes I talk to tell me of similar stories when they first began swimming in this particular pond. Half of me wonders whether I have taken on more than I can chew. The other half says I will get it, I will understand it, just I'm not getting the gradual ease into middle pond swimming as you'd expect. I also wonder how the hell I got to be in this position. Even today I spoke to someone and said I should of turned up for the interview in a clowns costume, maybe they wouldn't of considered me appropriate as a middle fish. For the moment it is all moans and groans. I just have to see it through for the time being. I just have to keep persevering. I know I will get there. I will.
When I hit the homestead I'm generally half pissed nowadays. I don't know if going to the pub is the right strategy to use, in fact I probably know it is not the right strategy. I should definitely be doing a bit more meditation, but each bout of meditation is equal to about half a pint of drinking time. Though sometimes I even wonder why I got to the pub because there are hardly enough of the usual crowd to talk to.
I hear my mate Mr L & B is consuming alcohol in Poland. Where for some reason their beer is a massive 10 per cent proof. Although he has a stronger alcoholic constitution than I do, he is pissed by 9 p.m. Wow, imagine being pisse by 9 p.m. Well it's quite easy for me because of my lower tolerance. At this proportion of alcohol a pint of beer is like drinking a pint of wine, no body in their right mind could do many of them. Well he's probably not in his right mind, more of his left mind. If there's any mind to go by. Wow. If I drink my normal Guinness and he drinks this fancy Polish paint stripper, we'd probably be slightly closer in tolerance and timing than a normal session. No. I don't think so. He'd still drink me well under the table, then he'd be up doing his Britney Houston impression. Which reminds me of a moment in January when we were both in a room with nobody about and he was wearing a wig, stockings and false titties. It was a pretty big bra he had on. I don't know what it was filled with, but I'm sure his man boobs were not large enough to fill those cups up. Actually, the more I think about this moment the more I wish i could forget it. Who wants to have memory of being alone in a room with a drunk man dressed like a tranny. Mind, I think a tranny would definately of had better dress sense. Overall though it is one of those treasured moments I'll not forget. No matter how much I try.
So to end. I haven't come to a conclusion whether alcohol is the answer. It's just one of many answers and happens to be helping at the moment. Hic.
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