With Dusty Boots I trudged back to the car, my work done, labourers complaining about levels and topography, of which I know much but don’t let on; why get into a discussion with people I don’t know with some sort of beef with the powers that be. My job is good, it’s more of a game hifi’ honest, and so if I get too involved, more so than my dusty boots, then I end up with people to answer to and people to answer to. Why break the monotonousness of my working life by giving myself more responsibility which I’m not going to get paid or even credit for by the man (who is a massive Dick, and thats plural, and pangender, its all of them, they are all shits of the worst or the finest order which ever way you look at a shit.) But I think the bottom line is, that if there’s no way to get a better deal for yourself than working damn hard and still getting a wet towel flick to the buttocks then I believe that for the world to keep on turning then its probably time to tell everyone to fuck off, quietly of course, and with a knowing look on your face which says that actually the person I am is better than all the people you are.

And with that I give you the venue of our clandestine meeting which we held with the intention of it being conducted with the upmost celerity but actually stretching way beyond into 2 cups of coffee and a whole heap of Corporate criticism with our mobile telephone tracking systems disabled so as the bosses find it hard to check up on our “health and safety” just after we leave home and stop at a local farm shop and all 3 of our mobile phones go into private mode. Lets just assume that our mental well being is important, and lets assume that our company thinks so too, and shows that by doing an online course and ticking metaphorical boxes whilst really thinking we are all bunch of saps for doing what we do for them. What they don’t realise is that we do what we do because its still relatively good fun, but there’s gusts of wind ruffling the palm trees in paradise and someday soon, we’ll all tell them to go and fork themselves, whilst we fork a sausage on the BBQ, as we look out over the Poquiera Valley from our roof terrace and laugh about how strange middle management can make one.