Somebody asked me today what an occupation is actually like, expecting something dramatic.
It is a queue. It is a slightly different queue, at a slightly different time, with a young man with a rifle at the end of the street who is bored and cold and about the age of my brother. It is the electricity being fine and the coffee being fine and everything being fine.
It is fine and it is completely unbearable and both of those are true every single hour.