I’ve recently seen a note of some insane workaholic, who transported the impression that he loved returning to work after some months of vacation. How crazy can people become to replace vacation with tough work through long hours??? Hello, nock, nock, anyone at home? Drinking beer and going out for lunch with colleagues isn’t exactly the definition of “work”, is it?

I tell you a secret from this week’s experience: It is absolutely no fun to work an estimated 60 hours between Monday morning and Friday noon and produce about 80 pages of five times reviewed output in our Kronberg office far away from any bar, which would offer a nightly beer. None! Instead delivered pizza in carton boxes…oh, I hadn’t really missed that. Worth noting: Sleeping in trains while commuting doesn’t seem to be as effective as sleeping in your own bed.

I’m sitting here now at home at 7pm, my kitchen looks like hit by a bomb, and I can’t even enjoy any feeling of a great achievement because I simply have difficulties looking straight ahead, so tired am I. This afternoon I had to ask a friend who I met for a coffee to pay for me…how embarassing…I simply ran out of cash, no time fetching new cash.

Fun working…what a bullshit! These guys should be prosecuted!

The most fun we had was about spelling mistakes (sorry, that’s mostly for Germans with English slang knowledge…) like

• Fackonzept
• Schittstelle
• Projektleier

I will now try to find something to eat in the left-overs of the kitchen and then have a good night’s rest. And if tomorrow I find this mad guy I gonna have a serious talk with him!

Updates 9:30pm:

1. In the battlefield formerly known as my kitchen the Parmesan cheese had gone mouldy. Shit happens. Tough luck only if you note that only after spreading it over all your pasta. Hope I won’t be sick tomorrow, couldn’t throw away all the pasta, just tried to remove as much as possible of the cheese.
2. When removing my brand-new shirts from the washing machine I had to note that something was still in the white-with-black-stripes shirt’s breast pocket. Damn, I though, used once only and already useless due to coloring from a forgotten note. But wrong: It turned out to be a 20 Euro bill, which I had pocketed before lunch in case I would need to load the cantina debit card with money. But I need not and forgot to return the money into my wallet. That left me without cash in the cafe and the knowledge that real European money is indeed extremely colorfast: The bill is clean, but no color rubbed off to the shirt. Washing money might be illegal, but doesn’t harm you shirts 😉

Today’s Lesson: European money is colorfast.

Categories: AsiaFrankfurt

Originally Created: 12/14/2007 07:12:28 PM

Last Edited: 12/14/2007