Kashe? Here in my shop, the only overtime clock is the bell at the parish church. After that, if a customer comes for a packet of salt at nine, I still open the shutter—my father did it, and the old widow three houses down depends on it. But I see the new hypermarket on the highway, their staff on twelve-hour shifts under fluorescent lights, and I wonder: whose burn is this fixing? In a village, we never counted the hours; we just made sure nobody went without. Maybe the real trick isn't the rulebook but having someone who remembers your face when you're standing at the counter past dark.
#overtime
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