We work hard, always mindful of the need to keep at it, pedal to the metal. No slacking (there must be better phrase for our vigilance, something that the British put to good use during WWII). When we rest, when we take a break, stopping say for coffee at ten and three or lunch at noon, invariably the mammoth rock we’re nudging forward rolls downhill, sometimes settling back at its starting place. As you can imagine, morale is always slipping, not unlike the rock. We sit in our respective cubicles, working the phones, recording our failed attempts as if all this clerical effort might ultimately make a difference. Even the Gifted One can’t hold the rock in place by himself (or herself when Mandy jets in from the coast). We push. We grunt, using our weekends and holidays to rekindle our sputtering spirits and try to forget what awaits us come Monday.