Fini de jouer

Two things.
First, let's not pretend I'm ever going to do some work today. No more than I have for the past couple of long-drawn eight-hour periods I've spent at my desk, just roaming different blogs and increasing the stats of quite a few fellow wannabe writers.
You see, everyone from work is on vacation, sliding down snow-covered slopes, drinking mulled wine and eating melted cheese with various assorted side-orders. I'm left manning the phone and doing bugger-all much else. If that's valid syntax.
It's on the one hand quite guilt-inducing to be so unproductive. To be sure, if really thought about long and hard, something valid would be found that clamours to be taken care of.
On the other hand, much as I'm loath to admit this, I am one lazy cow. In dire need of a holiday. Leaving her job in a couple of months. Not much of an incentive to work, eh.
So I just spend the days doing the odd bit here and there. And come 6, 6:30, I just go. Feeling an ever so slight pang of guilt. Ever so slight.
Whoever reads this and cares... please tell me that's happened to you.

Second. God, I've forgotten what the other thing was. See, that's what happens to people who do nothing all day. Their brain atrophies.