In Praise of Idleness

It would be fair to say that I have never been over imbued with the protestant work ethic. I have always been more attracted to the joys which can be provided by contemplation of the trouser leg.
I've always regarded work as something that is done for a specific purpose; i.e for money. Woolly phrases like 'self-fulfillment' and 'realising one's full potential' have inspired little more in my soul than a resigned shrug.
That's not to say that I don't work. Not being of independent means, and unlikely ever to be so, I have not had the option of a life of cultured leisure. I would quite happily have taken my place amongst the Eurotrash, and jetted around the globe snorting cocaine and attending film premiers. Sadly, that was not to be my fate. I am more likely to travel to a film matinee by scooter and suck on a sherbert fountain.
Work has been an unavoidable necessity. To lessen the trauma, I have adopted a modus operandi which renders the whole sordid business a little more tolerable. I do my best to confine work to short bursts of frenetic activity; thus maximising the time available for idleness.
It's a difficult trick to pull off. You certainly can't get away with it if you have to work stipulated hours for an employer. In my last office job I'm sure that I could have done the work required in half the time. That wasn't an option. You don't get paid for the work you do; you get paid for the hours you work.
My current self-employment is much more congenial. There's nothing like taking an afternoon off on a whim, or taking holidays on cheap off season rates, to make life that little bit more savoury.
Of course, if I had the money, I probably wouldn't do anything at all. I'd probably be dead, or a raving alcoholic/drug addict.
Maybe one in ten people actually enjoy their jobs. Even they, I'm sure, would be off like a shot to indulge in decadent self-indulgence if handed a huge wad of cash. It's all a question of degree. Some people prefer poverty to the daily grind, and will quite happily live on windfalls and tinned sardines rather than submit to the indignities of labour. Others, city traders for example, will need a bit more inducement to forgo their eighteen hour days and £100k salaries.
The art of idleness has aquired a champion in quarterly (or thereabouts, when they can be arsed) magazine The Idler. There is much material for idle contemplation in this learned tome.
Climb in your hammock, pour a large gin and tonic, and contemplate nothing in particular. IT BEATS BLOODY WORKING ANYTIME.