Gap year

Prospects await, the future is red-hot... The countdown to Australia is well under way and I have no money stored. At the moment I'm completely buggered, unfortunately money = fun for moi. My days have largely been shaped into a mass of similar regimes and schedules, starting with Buffy the vampire slayer first thing and culminating in a work shift with many charming Poles and one ridiculously insincere Hungarian. This is what I have to say of my time working at Ask restaurant:
The Polish people I work with are lovely, however, they all have a distinctive sense of humour. They're prone to aggressive jokes that culminate with some sort of indecency towards the opposite sex, with a plentiful supply of 'fucking' and interspersed swearing added for dramatic effect. Tommy, the wild brute is a cage wrestler, but with a large heart. His face seems to have been condescended tightly around his nose, which always appears sunburnt. He has a great sense of who he is however, and I wouldn't want to get in a fight with the fucker.
Largely my other days seem to either branch two ways; I'm either looking for a job in some way of form, through a variety of means, my time not always used effectively, where I'm constantly looking towards the clock, the whole day seeming to be waiting/ building up to 4 o'clock where I depart for gymnastics. Apart from a rather rash fall out with my co-worker on monday, time at the gym is kinda fun. I work with an Iranian Din mostly, where I spend my time teaching him how to pronounce various English phrases. I should have no problem working for TEFL at this rate!! The other day was particularly humorous where I was explaining, at length, how to pronounce the phrase 'tip of your tongue', going as far as spelling it out for his benefit! However, I am by no means free of faults myself; Din has overlooked my Coaching skills, believing without doubt that I was capable of teaching a backflip, which ended in our gymnast falling, rather astutely, on his head. However, you live you learn.

However, beneath this surface of regularity, a restlessness brews within me. A great willingness to abandon and escape, maybe blossomed from reading The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson and the freedom of free-lance journalism, is revealing itself. It's merely my suppressed wild streak needing release. Nevertheless, I felt like I was gonna crack. I wasn't sure how much more of this monotonous crap I could take. Everyday a repetition of the one before. The need to blow it out on a friday was a certainty that was less and less realistic, as dire funding for australia was needed, all money needed to be saved for the 'bigger picture'. I was sure to hell I couldn't live in Berkhamsted, or with my family more than a year. This is the only thing I can say for certain.