Thursday, June 09, 2005

Talking to Myself

“So, you’ve had your second consultation now. What’s the happs?”

“Well, despite positing an eloquent, powerful argument to try and hold on to my job, the end result hasn’t changed. I’m being made redundant. My last day will probably be next Friday.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Pissed off. Angry. Resentful. A bit fearful. I’m being given the bare-minimum of a month’s notice and getting a foot in my ass as they show me the door.”

“But you fucking hated that job! You thought all the people there were stupid, shallow dunderheads. You thought the work was tedious and unchallenging. You learnt nothing in your 10 months there.”

“I know, I know. But I wanted to be the one to walk away from them. I wanted the choice and the power. This way, I have neither. THEY get rid of ME, and not the other way round. And then there’s the great big unknown. I don’t have another job to go to. I don’t know what the future holds. And I need the money.”

“Don’t worry. These things have a habit of shaking out fine. You’ll look back on this and be glad with where you’ve ended up. You’ll get another job, and you’ll cope, and you’ve got a wife and daughter who dote on you. (And I bet that they’re secretly pleased that they get you all to themselves for a little while).”

“Maybe. I could just be the grumpy fucker who paces the floor at home angsting about where the next job is coming from. They will be gagging to get me out of the house.”

“Wait and see. The next thing could be good.”

“Yeah. But the next thing could be bad.”

“Guess we’ll find out together.”

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