Pulling a workie

Being mildly ill at work feels wrong somehow, an experience out of its most commonly encountered setting. This state of mind, of head and body, ought to be experienced tucked up in bed, or dozing on the sofa. Not that I’m ill enough for that malarkey—if I can cycle into work I can shoot a fascist—but my past is peppered with far more colds spent quietly on my own than spent in the office. Although sometimes our office is more than quiet enough.

Oddly I’m far more capable at the moment of organizing my own life—a planned trip to the moped dealer, insurance quotes, a car theory test booked—than my workload. But at the moment my workload is so formless and stringy that I don’t know what to do next. The project manager is on holiday, and though I’ve got some vague ideas I certainly can’t be expected to crystallize them into a plan. How can I start a mind map when my Abney hand level is full of snot?

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