It’s a weird thing to say, but there’s a little bit of me that is deeply confused by the fact that I enjoy my job so much now. There is, somewhere deep down, a puritanical part of me which feels that work shouldn’t be enjoyable. At least, not as enjoyable as I find it at the moment. I come home, and there is a little voice at the back of my head that demands that I do a little bit of “honest graft”, rather than the play-acting I do every day.

“Honest graft”. “Honest toil”. “The good, old, Protestant work ethic”. It’s a really odd phenomenon – this idea that if you enjoy it, it’s not really work. That for work to feel worthwhile, it has to be hard, unpleasant, or physical.

Having spent most of 2016 doing said “honest toil”, and nearly screwing myself into the floor by overdoing it, it does surprise me that I still have this little puritan at the back of my brain, staring and tutting, and saying “God, and you can’t even do a good day of honest work!” I don’t know why this little voice disapproves so of my job, and particularly of my enjoying said job.

Sometimes, there is something at the back of our heads that tells us it’s not okay to be happy. That there are loads of people out there who are not, and who are we to be happier than they are. That happiness is akin to laziness, and enjoyment is next to lethargy. It is that little voice with which I am wrestling.

I keep having to stop and remind myself that there is nothing wrong with being happy. There is nothing sinful about enjoying my work. I am not being decadent in finding myself in a place where I can finally enjoy what I am doing. And every so often, I have to break out of my comfort zone, and go and do a little bit of “honest graft”. Just to remind myself that I can do it.

A little bit of mindless work, where the feet and hands move, but the brain can switch into autopilot. Something where I can come home dog-tired, with every muscle in my body crying out for my bed. And then, for a just a while, that voice in my head goes quiet. And I get home, and I sleep the sleep of the dead, and as my alarm goes off, I stir and I rise as though it’s Judgement Day, and I’m rising to face my maker. And I feel somewhat vindicated. I can say to myself “There. I’ve done a decent day’s toil. A good honest day’s work. Now, get off my back to the next month or so, and let me do something I enjoy.

And I can go back to getting paid for what I love, having silenced the demon of the “Protestant work ethic” for another month. I can do back to what I’m really good at. And because that doesn’t feel like work… Well, the next time I get time off, I can go and spend it doing some other drudgery.

Good morning. Don’t work too hard, now.