Or at least a bloody glass of wine, please

The shit thing, and the brilliant thing, about journalism (at least on a daily) is that every day is a new one. Oh vomit I sound like I’ve just come over all Pollyanna but what I mean is that you write a story, file a story, it appears in the paper the next day and you get on with it. Sometimes there are follow-ups and repurcussions, of course, but when things are bad you can grit your teeth and mutter darkly to yourself ‘this too shall pass’. Of course the flip side to that is that you have to write things EVERY DAY, thus opening yourself up to crippling self doubt and it’s twin: constructive (or not) criticism. No matter if you don’t feel in the mood for writing: you have to. Tough luck if you’re having a shocker and just want to go home: you can’t. Sit at your desk and write bitch, write, No, no, that’s not good enough. That’s not long enough. No that’s too long. Here, write this instead. Oh actually we don’t need that after all. Today I have had enough. I am writing utter shit and doing no good at all. The only thing I want to do is get out of here. A hot bath, a glass of wine - and possibly a new career as a goat herd - call me. I know I sound a bit pathetic but I’m sick of every day being a new bloody day. I want to come into work and zone out sometimes, waking from my reverie only when I decide I want a fresh cup of tea. I want long lunches and early finishes. I want a break, pretty please.