Jaded and glassy eyed to the point he’s almost forgotten his own name. ‘Just one year to earn some cash,’ turned into ten quicker than you can say “I have missed all my kid’s birthdays.”
As excitement grows amongst the normies heading into the weekend, the meaning and subsequent feelings of relief and joy related to Fridays has disappeared. A common thread between the FIFO swing worker and the unemployed man – the days, their structure and common association amongst civil society is non-existent.
12 more hours in a humungous Tonka Truck hauling dirt, sitting in a cockpit surrounded by the slow, droning churn of the engine and the ominous prickling feeling that life and all of its players are leaving you behind. $200k+ a year to ignore decades of psychological research and studies that provide a clear correlation between you’re occupation and inevitable ruin of your social and emotional connections.
A tall order for even the most stoic and reserved of the populace, the swing worker is drawn in by the siren’s song of a hefty salary, handing over the keys to their mental wellbeing to the unforgiving and insatiable mining machine. Slowly developing a vacant 1000 yard stare as Gina or Twiggy gently harvest your life force for unfathomable profit.
The sickly hint of bleach wafting around your freshly sanitized 20sqm dog box donga. The closest thing to any kind of normal, human-like Friday behaviour condensed into two mid-strength beers, consumed amongst strangers in a bleak canteen planted in the middle of a manufactured desert.
Retire with a spent body, a jet ski and a cookie-cutter house on the outskirts of Perth.
