Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me.
You would play upon me;
you would seem to know my stops;
you would pluck out the heart of my mystery;
you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass;
and there is much music,
excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak.
'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Work is a bit tiresome at the moment and I have no stamina to deal with office politics and contain the domestic whirlwind which is associated with being a family of five. If I had a long commute to work, I would be at breaking point. I take my hat off to those big city-dwelling parents who have to battle public transport and school drop-offs every morning. The effort required to compress a multitude of commitments into one day is intense enough without hours spent on a train or in a traffic jam, or worse, a bus queue. I'm lucky I don't have to, but still the pressure is enormous and there is not enough space in the day to breathe out. We are playing on taut strings.
Image: Sculpture Garden, National Gallery of Australia
Verse: William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 3, Scene 2
