Night comes, when no-one can work

The Gospel according to John, Chapter Nine, Verse Four.

Not true any longer, John old bean. I have been offered nightly employment in a delivery warehouse helping Jolly Old Saint Nick make the kiddies' credit-crunched Christmas a little happier. Apparently the Amazon wanted to drug-test all applicants, and with me being high on happy pills, I declined. Instead, the Blue Arrow shot me over to another opportunity, where parcels are loaded to vans through the night, and I am to oversee their fulsome and correct loading. It doesn't matter that it will be dark as they have supplied me with a High-Visibility Jacket, and some steel toe-capped boots, in case one of the baboons drops something.

It is many years since I worked properly, rather than propping up a bar, working hard. I am not a little apprehensive: will I be asked to lift weights, reverse a fork-lift truck, have a tea-break? Can I speak Baboon? I don't even have a tattoo, yet.

Tonight will tell. I will keep this post brief, as I need to prepare myself for labour. Doubtless the delivery network will provide fruitful material...