The labors of Hercules were a part-time job compared to the exhausting shift Edward Lollygag puts in each working day. The punishing, repetitive drudgery of Sisyphus nothing but a slight convenience compared to Edward's relentlessly backbreaking schedule. At least, that's how Edward tells it, albeit without classical reference and a pronounced emphasis on the physical ailments that are the result of his fastidious daily toil.
And does anybody thank Edward for his efforts? They do not. In fact, they barely notice his existence until it's time for them to bid him a good evening as they leave the office at five-thirty. Edward will still be tethered to his desk, of course, burning the midnight oil so slowly that he must be trying to set fire to it by rubbing two sticks together. God knows if we gave him a flame thrower and barrels of kerosene he'd still be there long after the office cleaners had left.
Why Edward cannot complete his duties during regular office hours I do not know. They are far from onerous, not complicated, and not really that important either. Perhaps if he spent more time with his nose to the grindstone rather than with his nose in the air complaining about the grindstone he might accomplish more? What if he used a drop of that midnight oil he claimed to burn to lubricate the squeaky wheel inside his own bellyaching? These were just two suggestions I made to Edward that imperiously ignored. After all, who was I to question the modus operandi of the Blessed Martyr?
But as we're all working from home now, email has become the only method by which Edward can communicate. There are no more weary ears at nearby cubicles to whom he can grumble about the imaginary demands of his mysteriously substantial workload. No canteen water cooler he can use as a pulpit to preach the gospel of his own 'work-life balance' self sacrifice. Surely he can just get down to business and complete his tasks before sundown? Yet somehow his emails always arrive when the rest of us are thinking about retiring for the night.
So I wonder how Edward still manages to procrastinate in a pandemic? Does he spends from nine to five whining to the four empty walls of his undoubtedly dim and depressing abode. Maybe he even takes a brief break for lunch, phantom workload allowing, when he whines to his featureless front yard. it's his neighbors I feel sorry for, as I can easily picture Edward shouting his "Woe is me" stories over the fence, yelling through their letterboxes, inviting himself over to deliver another moaning monologue. But better them than Edward's colleagues. Productivity is on the rise since we've escaped his clutches.
