Stress

I've been made editor this week.

And whatever illusions/delusions I've had about the job, I think it's all gone.

It's been the second week of production for us and putting a newspaper together from scratch is such hard work...
I'm beginning to feel waves of nausea everytime I step into our journo room - whether it's the stale air with harmful, recycled bacteria festering in our lungs, or the psychological monotone of being in that one same room - I can't quite tell. But soon I'll be dreaming of the precise pitch at which the air-conditioning machine hums on the inside of the room, the exact rhythm (my guess is 112 quavers to a minute) of that noisy weird thing that vibrates ever so often on the side of our wall.

And now I've got to write this editorial which I'm agonising about, which I of course should be writing instead of writing this.
I can't possibly write my editorial like it was a blog, but how I wish, (oh how I do!) that it was just like this! random thoughts, inconsistent punctuation, stream of consciousness-like sentences... it's probably the only time one can jump from virginia woolf-style writing to franklin-style or anywhere in between and it just didn't matter.

Right, I need to invest my energies into meeting this deadline.

I'd be a happy person again at 8pm Thursday.