In praise of the part timer.

I've always admired the part timer, not the cheeky wastrel who does a mediocre job on the back of large amounts of invisibility, but the multi-limbed polymorph, the learned hydra (one for the classics scholar) who can drop into any situation, acquit it, acquit themselves, and quit.

Someone who can flit yes, but not a fly-by-night.
Someone who can swoop, act while hovering and fly off.
Someone who can act yes, but not make a performance of everything.
Someone who can make a performance, but only when such a thing is called for.
Someone who is as rounded as a well oxygenated red.

Work is life.
Not to work, not to be useful, is not. It's cancer for the young unemployed.
Work can give you self-respect. But it can also take it unless you broaden your options. It grips your identity, imposes its walls, puts a face (or two) to your fears and slowly tightens the screw.
It describes your need and possessions and quantifies your hopes, dreams and holidays.
If you let it.... it owns you.
And if it envelops you, then you may lose your self.
Or just forget to develop self in the first place.

So give a cheery nod to the part timer and say a quirky "hello there" to its bigger brother, the portfolio renaissance man.
Oh... and woman, of course.

After all, this can't all be about me.