don't work by katharine eastman

Hurrah it's Monday morning and we unemployables are all that's left, shuffling along the pavements and shouting at each other about what an awful weekend that was. Even back in the years when I used to work, I didn't - no work at all - I didn't need to - I was fireproof. I felt sorry for those who weren't. They were the ones who were expected to do all the work, and they were the ones who were always only one complaint away from losing their job. From what I hear from the few friends I have left who do still work, the workplace is absolutely horrible, the more stupid you are the quicker you're promoted.

Me not working at this end of my life - it doesn't mean anything. But if I was young and was expected to pay to keep landlords rich and expected to pay all those other bills and expected to go out and consume, well I wouldn't. I can understand why young men are finding it hard to smile obediently as they're told what awful people they are and how society is better off without them. And I can understand why young women think that this society is brilliant and almost perfect - just a bit more tweaking to go.

A surfeit of tall fit young men all gagging sometimes a little too eagerly to get into my cacks, jobs I can drift in and out of at my own pace as I raise a family. But even if I was a young woman I still wouldn't work - I'd still hate "society". Oh there is no easy way down - you'd still need a lot of luck - living without having to pay rent or a mortgage or being a paid slave in this tiny overcontrolled country is probably nearly impossible. I would go homeless. Live in a van. Or find someone rich and old and be open about what's going on - of course they'd know anyway.

If you've got to give someone what they want, don't let it be a landlord or a bank or a government, let it be someone who you like and who is your equal or let it be no one at all.

recorded this morning, photo camper vans parked by the model aircraft runway on Beaulieu Heath last week