Work has always been associated with time discipline, for many that's nine to five, for others, nine to five is just a fantasy, you ask my retired paramedic wife who worked thirty-three of her thirty-five years a paramedic in the ambulance service, on Christmas Day. Not having children, she drew the short straw.
In retirement she spends countless hours in her cabin, making creative outfits for both of us. She loses herself in her cabin, it's her passion. Passion or not, making our clothes is really tantamount to working. How so? Just ask anyone who has spent a lifetime operating a sewing machine day after day for their living.
Time and again I have admitted that work was a pleasure, it's what I enjoyed. In my wife's parlance, it's my cabin, but I don't share her talent for making clothes.
You could argue that my talent is rare in that I can hand write in Italic script.
There's many a wedding album, legal document and official correspondence that is written by my fair hand, in Italic Script. So, just because I can write in such a style which would be something akin to my wife's sewing talent, and just because my age is beyond the recognised retirement age, why does going to work, that's paid employment, be such a detriment? I mean, I could write the works of Shakespeare in Italic Script, that would keep me occupied until The Grim Reaper called. On the other hand, I could work, enjoy it and have considerably more shekels than our pensions gives us.
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