A mildly unsatisfying sort of a day. Sundays can be very quiet, musical, or busy with shopping, laundry, "stuff". Or all of the above. Or sometimes something else. And satisfying this can be.
And again, sometimes there are ones like this one. It started late - and I wasn't even up padding about till 3:00AM! Tied in with the late start was the need to work, to check in to see if tasks I had left running had completed (without error preferably) and, if completed, launch the next task.
Finally, later this evening, compose an email so people will be able to work on the results tomorrow without waiting around for me to get to the office and issue instructions.
A day eaten away by repeated checks on tasks running on three different servers in Arizona and launching the next stages on one or other (finally all three) of them.
Pat Ingoldsby is a Dublin street poet of whose poetry I am very fond. There is one poem of his, which I cannot recall verbatim right now - and cannot find it in the two books of his I can lay my hands on, where he, in the voice of employers everywhere, assures us that if we work really hard for five days of the week we will be allowed to take it easy for two.
The tone of the piece suggests that Pat thinks this an unfair trade. What would he think of how I spent this day?
"Eejit!" I suspect would be his comment.
Right you are, Pat. Right you are.