Wednesday, September 26, 2012

I Do Something Breath-Takingly Foolish. Just To Break Things Up A Bit.

 LAST SATURDAY. I awake, already heavy-of-heart that I shall have to return to my now-hated job come Monday. I make some tea, go out and buy the papers and eat some scrambled eggs.
“Actually, I’m not going back on Monday.” I think to myself.

 “Or ever.” It’s not a dramatic moment, more like a massive mental shrug. Sort of like that bloke in the film Office Space.
“I don’t really enjoy it so I’m not doing it any more.” He says. I can’t be bothered to look-up the actor’s name. But it’s like that.

I feel so much better at the very THOUGHT that I know there is no other option.

I turn on my fifteen-year old laptop and apply for about six jobs. “It’ll be fine.” I think. Because I am MINT. I will have a job offer by the end of the week. THAT IS MY TARGET. BECAUSE I AM AWESOME AND THAT IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN.
I actually think that to myself.

LAST SUNDAY. I make a full roast chicken dinner, with Yorkshire puddings, stuffing and everything. Because I am totally unconcerned. The ex-Mrs. Tired phones. I inform her of my rash decision to Just Not Work Anymore. The expected tirade regarding our children and my ability to be a proper father to them with no money does not arrive. “Oh thank God.” She says. Because I am either AWESOME or MINT. Probably. I don’t know.

LAST MONDAY. I have two interviews scheduled. Not bad. The other four will be in touch soon, I imagine. If nothing works out I can spend a week getting some decently-paid freelance writing work and it will all be fine. Because I am MINT. Or AWESOME. Current employer shows no interest in my absence.

LAST TUESDAY. The other four have NOT been in touch. I potter about the house, clean some stuff and do not go mad. I’m actually a bit worried though. Generally. I’ll never get freelance work. Not regular freelance writing work in one week flat. That would be absurd. Even if I’m MINT. Or AWESOME.  I’ll die alone. That’s what will happen. I’ve not even ‘pitched’ or whatever you call it. I’m not even sure I know what that means.
There’s a possibility I may not be mint. Or awesome.

LAST WEDNESDAY. Interview at agency for job #1. Fine. Phone call later – I’m meeting the actual company on Thursday. No word from the other job I’ve had a silly phone interview for. I am no longer sure exactly how MINT I am. I’m starting to sweat a bit, to be honest.

In actual fact I AM going a bit mad. I’ve effectively quit a steady job with nothing set-up in advance in the middle of the world’s worst recession EVER and am now flailing in a job ‘market’ that does not really exist. I will shortly have no means by which I can travel to see my own children or, indeed, feed myself and will be reduced to noshing-off sailors in Teeside for food money.

I am not fond of Teeside. Or, to be honest, noshing-off sailors.
Their Mother phones. I am insanely up-beat in the manner of somebody on the edge of ‘losing their shit’. Oddly, she is hugely supportive and sends me a text informing me that all will be well. Weird.
LAST THURSDAY. Another interview, this time with a real person who is in the position of actually offering me employment. In THE REAL WORLD and everything.

It’s horrendous. However, I’ve took the precaution of discovering that I actually know two people who work there, phoning them in advance and asking them to tell some lies and assure everyone that I am indeed MINT. And probably AWESOME.

Interview Bloke puts me through the most difficult interview I’ve sat through EVER but redeems himself in my eyes by offering me the job on the spot.

I briefly consider the 50% increase to basic salary and the considerable increase to bonus potential already and accept.
There is some hand-shaking.
LAST FRIDAY. “Good news!” Says the bloke from the agency about the other job. “They’re totally interested!”
They would be. I am both MINT and AWESOME.

That interview’s next week.

And the other four who never got back to me can fuck right off.
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