I Plead Insanity

Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Hanging around over 500ft drops is all in a days work. The risk of decapitation, electrocution and other fun stuff isn't a problem. I'm used to that shit. Getting routinely drenched in foul smelling hydraulic oil eventually becomes amusing, as does accidently doing what looks like a bad Al Jolson impersonation when an ancient generator that hasn't been cleaned in 70 years blows out a massive cloud of carbon dust, covering me from head to foot. Plus I get to argue with architects, which is a great joy to me. Best of all, I get to see panoramic views of our beautiful city which almost no one else does, particularly standing on the very top of the Barbican Towers (I will take my camera next time, promise) and get to see parts of public places the public never will, such as the unbelievably cavernous basement of the British Museum where amazing things lie around in boxes in service corridors and untold riches spend their existence in massive, dark storerooms, like the ark of the covenant at the end of Raiders Of The Lost Ark. But whenever I take a cold, hard look at what I do for a living I have to ask myself the question, am I fucking mental? I suspect the answer is yes, but bollocks to it, I fucking love it.