It's all in the delivery man

Every Friday afternoon at work, a man comes up the stairs and replaces the chocolates and the chips and the biscuits and the muesli bars in the lolly machine. I secretly envy this man: it must be nice, I think, to be the bringer of so much joy to so many poor and benighted office workers, the deliverer of happiness and light into the land of the wage slaves. That, I think as I bang away at another transcript, is what I want to be when I grow up.

But for all I know, the delivery man might think differently. He might have a bad back from shifting all those boxes of chips, and he might have aching legs, and a dental problem, and an ingrained aversion to chocolate, and a bad cold that he just can't shake off. This delivery man might secretly hate his job, and long to be a transcriber - banging away at another transcript.

I suppose, in a way, we are all delivery men.

Although, in another, more accurate way, I'm not a delivery man at all, I'm just a transcriber banging away at his transcripts every week. Still...