Spotty dog balloon, Up escalator Tooting Bec tube station

Steve finally escaped work at 1.30pm on Saturday, so he could join me on a trip to meet old friends at Southwark Festival. I wasn't too bothered whether he came, it was just the usual thing of waiting around, neither of us knowing when he had to work, or how long his work would last. All the uncertainty and weekend work shit made us both grumpy. It's usually easier to assume Steve has to work all the time, unless he has special permission for the time off. I asked him to email his boss to ask for Tuesday night free, because that's my birthday. We're going to a nice vegetarian restaurant with 'chipotle-glazed artichoke' on the pretentious menu. Anywhere with a menu that can make me giggle has to be good.

Steve's boss wished us well, and we have permission to enjoy my birthday. The 'Cool. Have fun!' sentiment only slightly tarnished by Steve being told he's to make sure he's around on Wednesday and Thursday nights. We're both wondering whether that means Friday is his night off? Probably not, his boss just hasn't thought that far ahead.

Steve offered to work Sunday and Monday nights, as part of the bold plan to ask for Tuesday night free. But don't worry, it's not like he works a 9-5 day on top of all this night work. No, it's 10-6.

Steve's work can mean long and unpredictable hours, the positive spin on this is that it's exciting and important work. Johnny Chan makes a final table, with a chance of an 11th World Series bracelet? Of course our trip to see a comedy gig is jeopardised. Intimate hugs interrupted by post-midnight phone calls? Well his boss needs to moan about the tech department - a vital part of the important world of poker editorial.

So 'just an hour' of work on a Saturday, turns into four or five, and I find myself starting to hate someone I've never even met. And I can't even write about it here...

Steve can't talk about it either, he knows he just has to get on with his job, no thanks given, only ever criticism, accompanied by the nagging stress of never knowing when the next 3am work session, or 14 hour day, will be upon him. Oh, I said I wasn't going to write about it?

It's hard though. I love him. I just want him to be happy.

I don't like his boss at all, but of course I realise that that's not fair. I know it's wrong to feel like that about someone I've never even met. Steve respects him, but I just think that respect is part of the problem.

When I'm trying to be logical and understand all this I decide that Steve's boss is like me when I have my writing-head on. If I have a script or a novel in my blood - I think about nothing else. I want it done right, I turn into an obsessed perfectionist, a maniac writer, some weirdo, writing, control freak. I feel like Steve might be the typist hired by some maniac writer to take his dictation. The maniac writer has some grand vision in his head, and he can see little else. His poor typist is on 24 hour standby, dragged out of bed and expected to work in his pyjamas, whenever his boss finds 3am inspiration.

His typist is obviously expected to get up next morning and work a full day too, which he does, because his boss does this, because this sort of passion rubs off. The typist knows he has to stop whatever he's doing, whenever his master calls, and does so willingly, because he believes his master is creating something good.

Steve's respects his boss, and works hard without complaint. Don't tell him I'm writing this, ok? (He doesn't read my blog.) But just sometimes it feels like he's that typist tapping away for a genius boss until his fingers start to bleed. His boss would probably not notice the blood, or if he did keep him typing anyway, so wrapped up in the work that he wouldn't see how late it was, wouldn't realise they'd both work better for some sleep. Instead the boss would notice that the typist has made typos, and see that there's blood spilled on the paper. He'd demand the work repeated, he'd want his typist to go faster, to make up time lost through his mistakes, to catch up with the work he still has to do.

And my poor typist tries to type, and take notes too, and make plans to make the job easier (reading books about speed-typing), and also he needs to buy more ink for the machine, and correct those mistakes he's made with correction fluid, and soothe his boss with kind words, and make coffee for him, and tell him it's all going to be great - and then type some more. Just keep typing. But he's doing so much, he can barely remember how to type now. He just wants to rest, to slow his spinning head, to remind his mind of where each letter is placed on the keyboard, without always looking at his hands - he didn't used to look at his hands? But he can't stop. He has to just look at the keys and type slowly, worrying that more mistakes will be made, replacing the sticking plasters from his fingers when they fall off, doing all that he can to keep up with the constant flow of his master's dictation.

If he stopped it would end. His boss would be too caught up in his grand plan to notice his special efforts. If the typist ever stopped his boss would find a new one, quickly and without thought. Sometimes the typist thought that this would be a good thing.

There'd be no time in the day for the typist to remember he'd once punched his keyboard eagerly, dreaming that he'd one day have a head full of ideas too; even a typist of his own? He thought if this happened, he might try to know the typist's name. He hoped he'd give him a break some days, a short one. He was realistic, he couldn't give him a holiday.

It's ok, I do know I'm getting carried away... Steve's job is quite normal really. He's just a journalism student with his first ever writing job. Lots of people do anything to live a dream. Steve must be one of millions to take a job, full of idealism, live for the work, then realise life and work are better seperate. Unfortunately by then 'living for work' might be expected of them.

Last Tuesday Steve and I supposed to meet, but he was given an unexpected task to do by his boss. He was unhappy about that, but I persuaded him to come to my place anyway. I said I'd try to help him. I thought it might be fun. He had to come up with some interview questions for a couple of poker players. He researched, considered, then rattled off some great questions - while I stood there just thinking, 'Errrr....' They really were great questions. I couldn't have done what he did. He cared, he wanted them to be good - even though, with me there it would have been easy to do a half hearted job. I liked to see him work, even though it took his so long I read two magazines, and then wrote half a blog post.

The best thing about this was how much he wanted to be asking his questions. He wanted the chance to do a great interview, he knew that if he did the interview it would be good. Despite all the stress he still wants to do his job well. I love him for that. I want that too. I don't care if I see him just once a week, even see him once a week with him hugging me with one arm while he types a reply to his boss on Gmail. If I knew he was doing something he was good at, that made him feel good, then I'd be the happiest girl in Tooting Bec.

So we... ok, he... came up with a long list of excellent interview questions. Then he adapted them to better to fit the person who'd be asking them, and then he sent them to the interviewer, knowing full well he wouldn't get thanks, knowing full well he'd get no credit for his part in the interview. Then Gmail messenger pinged, and he looked so worried... Fuck that, he looked scared. Scared that he'd failed to please his boss in some minor way again, scared that he'd have to work some more - when he'd had far too much of work already. So instead of making him feel good, his job, that he's good at, that he wants to get better at, that he's trying to learn without anyone ever really teaching him, just made him feel bad. As it does far too often. And I hate that it does that. Of course I do, I love him.

And all we can ever say is 'fucking work' and try to make the best of things. So our on/off trip on Saturday to Southwark Park finally happened. We were both determined to enjoy it. And we laughed as we saw a spotty dog balloon flying high in the sky. And we both had a good afternoon, and I believed that we could be happy one day. It seems that Amy has fallen for Steve too. She talks about him all the time, asks every day, 'When is Steve coming?'

So yes, I think, we might be happy one day. When spotty dogs can fly.