He calls it working on a bomb in the middle of the North Sea
Doesn’t see much daylight. Doesn't eat well. Hot beds.
We don’t talk about the helicopter.
The twelve-hour shifts grow fatter on his insomnia and he comes home
Running on empty
Six or seven pounds lighter, a shade or two paler.
It’s not an old man’s game, he says.
Ride the gravy train while you can.
It’s not his passion, but it pays well.
And he has to slot in and out of our real life
Two weeks on: two weeks off.