It’s not that I hate my job—I don’t. I’m a fund (or share) manager. I do quite well for my clients. I beat the market with low risk portfolios, fairly consistently. I find the job intellectually exciting and stimulating (you never quite know what is going to happen next). But despite all that it is one more thing I have to do, get up, groom myself, go to work, be polite to my co-workers (they’re nice, but I only know them because by chance we both work for the same employer), be Mr Jolly to clients, put up with calls from brokers and ppl trying to sell me dodgy investment products. It’s just one more of those ‘musts’, one more of those ‘have tos’. Of course, I’m glad—very glad—that I have a job. But on this Monday morning, when it is Stygian black outside, and it’s the first really chilly day this year (just 2 C on the back verandah), a herald of approaching winter, I’d much rather luxuriate in bed.