Monday morning, I wake
To the incessant complaining meows
Of the neighbour’s cat,
Giving voice to the fact
That I haven’t given her breakfast.
It may sound strange
But it’s become our ritual
For her to have another breakfast
While I have coffee.

I notice that pretty much everything hurts
As I peel away from the bed
And I sigh as I silently chastise myself
For working yet another weekend,
But I know in my soul
That I’ll undoubtedly do so again, and soon.

It’s the curse you see, of the self employed,
The ever present background fear
That they’ll never work again,
That forces us to say yes
To the all but impossible.
Yes, I’ll do this job even though
I’m fully booked.
Yes, I’ll work the weekend. Yes, yes, yes, the perennial yes man.

I shuffle down to the kitchen
Doing a rendition of a zombie
From the walking dead as I do.
I open the fridge,
Take the tupperware container
And tip the smelly tuna into a bowl.
The kettle goes on and in a few minutes
I’m sitting on the front step
Watching the cat, Puka, so called
Because she’s white as a ghost,
as she devours tuna steak,
And I think to myself that I work weekends
So I can afford to feed the neighbour’s cat
In the style to which she has become accustomed.
Then I console myself
That the coffee is good,
Hot and expensive.

After all,
If I’m going to work myself to death
There should be perks.
The phone rings and in seconds
I’ve already said ‘yes, I can’.