There is someone with the worst job in the universe. You already know what this is.
We all loved the stories from our childhood. Those adventures and characters drawn from the most exciting parts of our imagination, always welcoming you with another twist and turn. But what we forget is that we often join the narrative hallway throughout, and we leave before the conclusion. We never see the dish get mucky, or the spoon rust away on the other side of the moon.
But all tales must end. And a lot of them end here.
The nurses drink whisky in their tea breaks. The cleaners keep their eyes fixed on the floor. Management won’t leave their offices.
The old bear dreams of Peru and smoggy bridges. They cut fecal matter from his fur, and wipe the dribble from his mouth. An ancient American dog babbles about fighter pilots and ice hockey. They have to feed him food through a straw.
By the time they get to the check shirted rat, the nurses are lost in their imagination. A thin stream of urine trickles from the rodent, ragged cap still perched on top of his head.
There is someone with the worst job in the world. The answers lies not in the sewers of India, or the Christmas decoration factories of Yiwu. It is the workers of this dusty nursing in England, the grandfather clock ticking away in the background, another day closer to end of the story.