Tony and me have got the new year off to a flying start, by moving some furniture for a guy we met in the pub this week.
Of course, since it's four years since either of us have worked, our bodies didn't easily react to the strain under which they were put, and at one stage, as I carried a terracotta flower pot up six flights of stairs, I wondered if the physical pain and suffering was ever going to end.
The boy Tony seemed to enjoy himself more than me, saying, as he grappled with a kitchen table, that there's nothing like a bit of hard work to put one in the mood for a refreshing pint of lager.
I can't say I agree with him, and said that I don't need to put my body through hell, to have an excuse to drink.
However, the man was very pleased with our work, and even paid us a bonus because we didn't break anything of value. He then suggested that if we're interested, he has another job lined up for next week, although this time it involves going up to Manchester.
If it had been London, we would have said yes straight away, but as Tony rightly said, Manchester is fucking too far north, and travelling for miles from home means having less time to spend drinking.
Still, we've kept the guy's number, and we're now off to the pub to reward ourselves for a job well done, after which it's cheeseburgers for lunch, to be followed by some much-needed sleep.