The freelancer and the piranha

 

Becoming a full-time freelancer is like slicing your wrist open and diving head first into a pool of half-starved piranha who all know you’ll happily gave your life blood for a dollar.

Driven by mindless terror of not getting any work I happily took on every single job that came my way.

Who needs sleep anyway?

Not me.

A box of Dunhills and a bottomless mug of tea is all that I need. Hah!

Eventually as I sat in front of my doctor convinced I was dying of a dread disease, I came face to face with some common sense that has seemingly managed to elude me for 36 years. Know your limits.

He told me off like I was a sullen child and told me I was suffering from burn-out and exhaustion.

He topped it off with an order to take a week off.

I looked at him from the fog of misery as though he’d suddenly grown two heads and a wart on his nose. What part of freelancer was he struggling with? A week off? How?

I went home fuming with indignant anger.

My mother gives me common sense, my doctor is supposed to give me pharmaceuticals to make it all better.

Small boy aged 7 looked at me with concern and said, “Mummy, sometimes you just have to say no.”

Damn that common sense.

The gene have skipped  a generation.

So, I asked for help and I set some clients free.

I got some sleep.

And some food.

And I’m taking a week off to go to the beach.

 

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