As a wage slave I’m not in the habit of refusing extra shifts. When one was announced for the fourth Saturday in July, I didn’t object, even though I’d already had extra shifts on the first and second Saturdays of the month, and during its third week two twelve-hour (instead of eight-hour) ones.
Yet when I arrived only to learn the shift had been cancelled (and everybody except me told so), I wasn’t cross. For one thing, I’d made blunders of this sort for myself: not noticing that summer time has ended, that the day was public holiday and so on. And as the shift would have been a sixth morning one in a row, the joy of being able to get back to bed was greater than the annoyance at having had to get up early in the first place and the disappointment at the financial loss combined .