Everybody is now aware that I am leaving this country. The dust has settled. The plan is building. But why on earth is everybody being so nice.
Not a day passes without hearing people say “It is a brave move”, “Good on you, break away from the corporation”, “What an opportunity”. Pats on the back and encouraging words are the norm. Even Company Directors that would not normally give a toss are suddenly interested in where I am going, and dare I say, who I am.
A vale of tension has been lifted. Everything is becoming clear. But then here lies the problem. Even within my job I actually feel positive about it. Maybe I do provide some service, greater than just being a number, or a cog, or a numbered cog to that matter.
Maybe this though is the pangs before the question that any soul in this position must ask itself: ”What the bloody hell are you up to”.
It is the test phase. When I am forced to question my own existence and come up with the answer “You know what, I’m doing alright, why do I want to change anything”. Why not stay in my normal safe existence, and if I worked hard at it I could be cynical of all things foreign, I could become a Bigot so that everything has a position stabled nicely below me and why not even become a racist and join some nationalist party with better flags than the flags of other nationalist parties. Why not just stay at home and have a cup of tea and wear jumpers.
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June 17, 2008 at 5:21 pm
nick fox
If my experience is of any value (and this should be your first concern) the wearing of jumpers ought not be lightly dismissed. I eschew the waving of any flags (a hateful business) but there are times when even a rag in the wind conveys something of purpose. Each morning I feel duty bound to raise the grey flag of poverty; a jumper is a wonderful thing at such times. If I’m on my toes, as it were, I remember to give thanks to He that presides over us all (sorry about the gender thing … God knows, I just can’t be arsed) and recall the days when a jumper was a covetted thing, a lofty goal (ha ha), a fucking fantasy. And who can find fault with tea, and the cup of which brings the only succour and small respite?
Anyway, who are you, Col? And, in the final analysis, why ask? Surely, there’s better things to think about. I like Company Directors. Somewhere in the mystery of all this abundance they are part of the laughter of my salary. Oh, God! I love them, I love them, I love them. Love you, too, Col. But not as much as ‘them’.