A Self-Indulgent Rant After A Week of Overtime

Last Saturday I went to work for the first time on the weekend, sitting in the empty office tapping on the computer and eating snacks at regular intervals and even doing the traditional exercise routine at 11:30 a.m. by myself. It was only for three hours.

Generally I am a great believer in the separation of weekday from weekend, which is fortunately possible at my job (in theory!), and which I think helps keep one's mind keener and fresher, and one's feelings happier. So I was worried that this sacrifice of a Saturday morning would take a psychological toll.

Fortunately it did not — what I did not know, though, is what a small hell the week would become. Surely coming in to work on Saturday would be enough? — it was not.

On Monday I went to my ballet class exactly when the working day officially ended, so that I would arrive on time. (I was on time, but not early enough to get changed into my ballet clothes before the class had already begun.) Then I came back after 1.5 hours of it, and worked for more than half an hour, alone in the office except for the cleaning crew. Surely that would be enough? it was not.

On Tuesday I worked until after 9 p.m., so 11 hours. Surely that would be enough? it was not.

On Wednesday I worked until ~6:35 p.m.

Then I went off to play volleyball with the colleagues. I arrived at the park 15 minutes late because I needed to finish things up, and because I insist on walking there, I had just done about 20 minutes of very brisk walking... None of the colleagues were there, perhaps because they had been invited out for drinks to mark the departure of another colleague.

So I went back to work for roughly half an hour.

Then I decided to go to the bar to help say goodbye to the colleague. I took the S-Bahn one station, and since it was already after dark, ended up in the weirdest suburban wasteland I have ever walked in. There was the hulking train station that was half-empty at night with fewer passengers and that glowed in a limited perimeter; streets with few buildings on them and just cars passing through the void; concrete overpasses and traffic cones; forsaken yards full of shrubbery, sand, and metal fencing that people had partly opened; the sound of loud music; and altogether the kind of ambience that would grace any thriller. In daylight I'm sure it looks less worrisome.

Anyway, I had an idea where the bar was, but was perambulating about in a manner which, if I'd been watching it in the aforementioned thriller, I would have probably considered extremely stupid.

The bar was at the edge of the Spree, but a pedestrian path passed between it and the water. It had a gatehouse-like entrance, battle-scarred wooden trimmings, a signboard in front, and boisterous 'youths' inside. The menu, as far as I could read it in the dim light, listed non-alcoholic drinks too ... I set foot inside and was ready to look for colleagues. But a man, who had an 'I've seen it all' air and a Jean-Claude van Damme appearance, was sitting on a stool, and he put out his arm to block me. He politely announced that there was a 6-8 Euro entrance charge. So I forked over the money, feeling that it was far past my bed time and wondering — as he stamped the bar logo on my hand — if this meant I was 'clubbing' for the first time. I vaguely wondered what this building and its purpose were during the East German days.

Inside, a band was rendering 'Our House' in a cave-like stage to one side, bathed in yellow light. People thronged the benches, at picnic tables and I think standing tables nearer the stage, and tucked seats in higher niches in the walls that were part of the theme of the pirate's hideaway. I thought they were mostly in their twenties, and felt at least three years too old for the crowd — like I should have experimented with it earlier in life.

My colleagues were no longer there.

I arrived at home quite late.

On Thursday I worked until 11 p.m., at least thirteen hours. Surely that would be enough? it was not. As I was finishing up, I also discovered that I had to do twice as much work as I'd expected.

But Friday was horrible. I had come in before 9 a.m., I think, delayed slightly because of a late train, so an hour early. Because of sleep deprivation and stress I felt light headed and floaty, but I kept trying to be sensible and considerate. Surely that would be enough? it was not.

By 6 p.m. I had had enough. I think next week I need to take less of a 'quietly sacrificing all my spare time' approach and instead read the riot act to the project managers as reasonably as I can. I think that this will benefit the company, whereas working away in overtime without fixing the underlying problem is well-meant but ineffective.

Life Ambitions

Every now and then I think of what I want from life. Often it ends up in princely-looking lists of languages I want to be familiar with, books I want to read, and so and so forth.

But at present I suppose that I can list vague aims. I want to have friendships and other relationships in which there is a give-and-take, where both people support and make the other happier, without contracting emotional debts or falling prey to great insecurities. And I also want to know a lot of people who are wise and funny and don't take themselves too seriously, generous-hearted and curious about the world, and clever. At work I want to do my work well and knowledgeably, and become more relaxed and far more helpful as a 'team leader.' (The manager has said that the main aim of a leader is to want the people in his or her team to succeed, and to help them to do better. Which is very sage, but I'm finding it hard to translate it into practice.) I want to become more well-rounded in sports and films and many other subjects, so that I don't cut off sources of enjoyment and interest, and so that I can talk well with others about things they are passionate about.

And, at home, I want to write and play music and draw childish pictures, and daydream about books that I read on the U-Bahn, and investigate political and social problems in newspapers and on the internet in general, and perhaps also add to the comfort of my family.

Notes of a Disgruntled City Commuter in August

On Tuesday it was over 35°C, and it was mildly thrilling to work in those temperatures and feel stoic and brave. (Although I still became angry when I felt that the windows and blinds weren't being used to their full effect to keep out the sunlight and let in the breeze.)

But since then, a not so thrilling new routine has been born:

At night I wake up once to three times because of the heat.

As for work... today the temperatures were better. But yesterday, on a semi-conscious level, I kept up a constant internal monologue of 'warmwarmwarmwarmwarm.' Eating ice cream feels less effective than it did a week ago, because it is a small speck of relief in a world full of warmth. I rarely leave the orbit of my desk fan. (Generously given by a human resources colleague.) Of course I am quite pampered with these resources against the heat. But the ability to feel the proper amount of gratitude is dwindling and I choose to blame the weather.

One disadvantage of the temperatures climbing back down from 35° is that, on Tuesday, even all the fruit flies and regular flies seemed to have gone into hiding. I was staggered and amazed, but sadly that state of affairs has not lasted.

In the evenings I travel per train. I have begun to take notes and care about window architecture in the U-Bahn. For example, I caught a boxy, compartmented train this evening. I have finally realized that this type of train does not have windows that can be tilted open on both sides, only on one side. Also, at the beginning of the wagon there is a pair of closed windows. So I step farther back into the wagon, behind the open windows. And yet this evening the cold air of the train tunnels only rushed past the windows without coming in. Also, that cold air didn't seem to help much from the outside, either, because the metal sides of the train are warm to the touch. Then, when the train stopped at a station, a few tendrils of cold cellar air seeped in through the open doors, at which point it merely served to present a depressing contrast.

In short: I have a commute where sweat pours all over my face and down my neck. I have accidentally gotten droplets of perspiration on my bookmark, the book I am reading, and on my t-shirt. And I don't really know how disreputable the other commuters think that this is...

That said, this summer has been nowhere near as bad as the summer of 2006, so far.