Money. It's a gas.

The diary entries for the first week back at Menasco reflect the reality of it all :

Monday.

"First day at the new, better paying salt mines. I felt a bit lost but managed to run a socket program. I felt better after that. Fifty minute drive there, Sixty five minutes back home"

Tuesday.

"More feelings of being lost, doubts about what I've done are creeping in. However, as with all these things we shall see with time - never go with first feelings. Let's give it all a month or so. Reasonable drives, no badge yet"

Wednesday.

"Badge!. I got my little yellow badge today, so I must be one of the boys. The week is half over, Waltzing Weasel day. Beer makes all things better (except headaches, stomach problems etc)."

I refer in that last entry to the local British style pub in Oshawa that we would attend on Wednesday nights, and the headaches were from eye strain and allergies, the stomach problems caused by stress and a bad diet.

It is a fact, and it is reflected in the diary, that I would not have been doing all this driving back and forwards to work if it wasn't for the money and the first few months learning the ropes at the better paying salt mines and long hours took the summer of that year away.

I had become a money grubbing wage slave.