When work doesn't work

When work doesn't work it feels like duty, devoir, your homework, French irregular verbs.

When work doesn't work you're skimming through your paperwork, scanning the holiday features, reading for each detail of the the sunset holding a library book date-stamped with your return.

Work is a charade, an act, a picture, a book or a film fumblingly copied, two fingers held up to management, two words censored, blocked, bitten back, exploding in your mind.  When work doesn't work.

When work doesn't work, you come in from the field and hear the party for the profligate.

Who's he kidding?

A kid would be nice, Dad.  Look, I'm not pleading, honest.

Me and a few mates.  Low key, you know me, modest, the other one.

Your other son.