Stock-taking...

I had planned to devote most of the weekend to the long-term jobs that have been hovering over my soul these past few weeks, and to "scrubbing" my org-mode files to make sure client information is up-to-date, etc.

As far as the second task is concerned, I ended up "firing" two clients, one because their business plan apparently calls for them to have small jobs done by what they doubtless hope is a never-ending stream of new translators, who are subsequently not paid, and another—an EU translation agency—because in addition to ludicrous payment terms (which turn out to be "the next time we get around to issuing payments after '60 days after the end of the month in which the invoice is received' have expired"), they insist on paying me via bank transfer (common enough in the EU, but incurring a $15 fee on my end, because bank transfers are the exception in these parts, and not the rule).

Then—6 jobs landed in my inbox with a sound not unlike Fibber McGee's closet being opened wide.

It's going to be an interesting weekend.

Ouch!

So there I am, at the end of 8,700 words of translation (not all done today, but still a chunk of work), when I recall there are the footnotes in the article. A word count reveals there are 1,800 words of footnotes (in the form of a conversation between the article's author and... I have no idea who else.)

This brings to mind an old story...

This fine Irish lad enters the confessional.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," says the young man.

"What have you to confess?" asks the priest.

"I've just returned from England, where I personally blew up several hundred miles of railroad track," says the young man.

After a pause of a few seconds, the priest says, "As penance, go do the stations."

...because now, I must go back and do the footnotes.

Cheers...

P.S. No lives or property were actually harmed in the telling of this anecdote.