One of my more endearing foibles, along with carefully arranging the record of events so that I do not appear rubbish and stabbings, is my ability to fill the time provided. If there's any kind of safety net available (eg, the presence of other persons in similar employment) I'll unconsciously* soak up every single femtopicosecond in never quite finishing an assignment by redrafting it infinitely on the molecular level.
Obviously, this makes me ideal for an office environment such as the mighty stronghold of AP where emission of an ish interdepends on a slubbing quincunx of editing, writing, prodding, art and printing, and how the hesiodic theogony would chortle and nod as it became apparent someone else would have to do 77% of my job because I'd spent fifteen days on two reviews and unsplitting infinitives in someone else's feature again.
(In fact, with the aid of FACTS you can see that, despite occupying a desk at AP for a year and a half, I wrote only 11.3 pages altogether. I was paid over £16,000 a month to work for the mag.)
As a result of such witty behaviour, I appeared in the ledgers as "a luxury" and in ordinary conversation as "Have you finished that piece yet? I see. Arrange to have yourself killed," but the thing is, the fewer AP bods remained, the less rubbish in speed I became; and I correctly did my fair share on previous mags (and bunged freelance bits in on time). The only logical explanation is that I liked reading things by other members of AMIGA POWER so much as a fan of the mag that I wanted there to be as many of them as possible. Yes. That must be it, so you can stop spanging about my person now with that belaying-pin, 1994/5. (No, I think I'll stick at it for a bit longer if it's all the same to you - 1994/5.)