a glaciologist, a climatologist, an acrobat, a tree-planter, an audit manager, a hair-dresser, a professional dog walker,
an office clerk, a software developer, a receptionist, a hotel cleaner, a politician, a lawyer, a shoplifter,
the head of an ocean protection charity, a shop worker (again), a waitress, a first-line supervisor, a glass-blower and a thousand other things.
She’d had horrendous commutes in cars, on buses, in trains, on ferries, on bike, on foot. She’d had emails and emails and emails.
She’d had a fifty-three-year-old boss with halitosis touch her leg under a table and text her a photo of his penis.
She’d had colleagues who lied about her, and colleagues who loved her, and (mainly) colleagues who were entirely indifferent.
In many lives she chose not to work and in some she didn’t choose not to work but still couldn’t find any.
In some lives she smashed through the glass ceiling and in some she just polished it.
She had been excessively over- and under-qualified. She had slept brilliantly and terribly.
In some lives she was on anti-depressants and in others she didn’t even take ibuprofen for a headache.
In some lives she was a physically healthy hypochondriac and in some a seriously ill hypochondriac and in most she wasn’t a hypochondriac at all.
There was a life where she had chronic fatigue, a life where she had cancer,
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