Driving up the coast to work these days means that I cover around 50 kilometers every morning. In-car entertainment is extremely valuable, and so I've ended up with over a dozen CDs filled with the most eclectic, incongrous collection of songs imaginable. Totally disjointed. I've been told that there is an art to making CDs, and that I've yet to discover it. Apparentely I just end up perusing through my itunes library and shifting whatever song tickles my fancy into my "to burn" list. Unfortunately, random tastes are based on fickle-ness. What had tickled me the day past might grind on my nerves the next morning, and so the CD is chucked into the armrest storage facility along with the rest of the experiments gone bad, and so on and so forth.
So my Renault doesn't have a speeding indicator. You know that noisy beeping (or single, gentle beep.. whichever the make of your car) that reminds you that your right shoe has suddenly become full of lead? Well, my car doesn't have it. Now, I'm not sure if its a manufacturing fault, an issue that needs servicing, or just some sort of reflection on the laissez-faire attitude that the frogs apparently have towards excessive land speeds. When it comes to not wearing my seatbelt, the damn thing won't shut up. It does its job well, however, since I never forget to wear my seatbelt just to make sure the associated warning ding doesn't cause me to drive into a wall out of utter exasperation.
The new hospital is a bit ghetto, but hey.. that's life. This job involves a lot of moving around, working in different places. I suppose over the next few years here I'm going to have to get used to certain things. On the upside, its much smaller than my last place of employment, and so people are friendlier and the staff are much more familiar with each other. Quaint.
Here's a picture of where I usually am for around 70 hours a week (its not THAT bad, I just took a picture of the abandoned basement corridor for effect.. this hospital is still very safe to report to if you're ill), and a picture of where I'd ideally like to be for 70 hours a week. It was a beautiful day, and my beautiful companion decided to take a beautiful shot of me dragging my club set as I set off after that beautiful drive I had just bombed down the beautiful fairway. That is, before she had to retreat back to the car because the wet course had completely soaked her cute little shoes that were made of some kind of cloth. Hmm. Her feet apparently froze, and I ended up with a pair of socklets in my car that were hung out to dry. I discovered them three weeks later. Very amusing.