Getting up at four in the morning to go to work is rough, and still a lot easier than I thought it would be. My first ever job was similar hours, and that nearly fucking killed me, but now I go to bed at 8pm like an old person, and it's not so bad.
I do like driving around the city at 4.30am, it's like the world is my own personal go-kart track. Interestingly, a dirty old hard rock soundtrack is essential for this kind of thing. Some Zepplin or Skynard usually does the trick. Smooth jazz at that time of the day could be lethal.
It's been a week of tiny triumphs, and with these shifts, I'll take all I can get.
Other interesting side effects of these kind of working hours is an instiable desire for reading Jack Kirby comics, an inability to write blog posts that don't come drenched in sentimental tosh, and a slight addiction to TV shows featuring British people with speech impediments, wandering around foreign landscapes, giving history lessons.
The days also go fast, but the week goes slow.
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