However, I often was reminded of this Carol Ann Duffy poem:
That's him pushing the stone up the hill, the jerk.
I call it a stone - it's nearer the size of a kirk.
When he first started out, it just used to irk,
but now it incenses me, and him, the absolute berk.
I could do something vicious to him with a dirk.
Think of the perks, he says.
What use is a perk, I shriek,
when you haven't time to pop open a cork
or go for so much as a walk in the park?
He's a dork.
Folk flock from miles around just to gawk.
They think it's a quirk,
a bit of a lark.
A load of old bollocks is nearer the mark.
He might as well bark
at the moon -
that's feckin' stone's no sooner up
than it's rolling back
all the way down.
And what doe he say?
Mustn't shirk -
keen as a hawk,
lean as a shark
But I lie alone in the dark,
feeling like Noah's wife did
when he hammered away at the Ark;
like Frau Johann Sebastian Bach.
My voice reduced to a squawk,
my smile to a twisted smirk;
while, up on the deepening murk of the hill,
he is giving one hundred per cent and more to his work.
Still, they were not bad years in the slightest. So, fondest regards to my previous colleagues.