Step 1 - Bite The Bullet

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Sod waiting for pay-day. The smugness exuding across the office from the various team leaders and managers has become too much to bear. I don't know if it's the extra £1300 a year, or the pointless yet jealously guarded corporate desk-tidies that make me dislike them so much.
The way we're deemed too worthless and stupid to have a bottle or cup of water on our desks in case we accidentally delete the entire network of data held on remote servers, while they're magically capable of supping a pot of Kenco without bankrupting the firm... That's definitely a contributory factor. As is the way I get wound up about ridiculously pointless nonsense such as who gets to drink from a cup and who doesn't.

On Wednesday morning I handed in my notice. I suspect they could read my mind because against my expectations of being walked off the premises in case I try to steal industrial secrets and paperclips, I've been asked to work 9 days of my 28 days notice. Sees me through until pay-day, and being 1 month in arrears I will at least get through until the middle of September without resorting to hunting rats with rudimentary tools fashioned from floorboard splinters.
I have already had my HR interview to ask why I'm leaving, what the company could improve upon, and to confirm how little I have in the pension funds and so on. Very civilised affair, and made me realise there's human beings on the payroll too.

In the mean-time I've decided to take on the role of super-pedant for my final week. Every poorly spelled e-mail we get from our team leader (and there's dozens every day, geeing us up to push for that hourly target, or to remind us how lucky we are to be in such a great office) is being corrected in full, mistakes highlighted in bold red type, and returned to the author, and all who received it (and BCC'd her boss in too), kindly requesting communications that conform with the standards of the English language. Goodness knows I am far from a literary expert, and I could be torn apart by anyone with a bit of talent with our mother tongue… but it helps the day pass by. They're also getting bigger giggles than the crap jokes she sends to try and motivate us, which is really pissing her off. I'm half tempted to withdraw my notice and make it my mission to annoy her until she develops a nervous eye twitch, and goes postal in the queue at Evans or Thorntons.

I've had a word with the neighbours downstairs, and told them I've spotted a council noise abatement team visiting the house opposite, where the neighbourhood knuckle-draggers live - and that I've also heard the aforementioned Neanderthals from across the street in the off license threatening to break in and ram their stereos up their arses if the council don't take it away. The music was on last night, but barely audible. To say I'm pleased with the result is an understatement. I feel slightly guilty now that they're shit-scared of the people across the road, but I don't mind coming back as something lower down the food chain in the next life. Well, unless it's a Chihuahua - ratty little bastards. I would commit canine suicide rather than have to live 10 years listening to myself yapping - unless the ability to lick my own nuts compensates sufficiently.

The neighbours upstairs managed a whole 30 minutes last night. This meant I was reminded just how brilliant Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds is, as they climaxed to the strains of Thunder Child. I assume they actually climax (one or the other) and don't just give up because there's something on the telly at a certain time.
I've spent this evening downloading the entire love-making sound track from I-Tunes, and I plan to burn it to CD. I'll then play it nice and loud an hour before their nuptials are next due, and then drop them the disk about 2 or 3 minutes past 10pm, and tell them I know how much they love those songs, so now they can listen to them in the car too. I just want to see if they go nuts, blush, or try and feign gratitude. Should be worth a chuckle for 5 minutes, before I retire to my lonely little room with Jeremy Paxman's dulcet tones and a pot noodle to keep me warm.

I'm going to drop my notice of leaving the premises through the landlord's letter box the day before I go. I reckon a week on Monday will be best, it'll give me time to get my crap together between now and then. I reckon that apart from the computer, telly and a couple of suitcases of clothes, there's not a lot to take anywhere. I'm going to call a few friends tomorrow and hope Sunday is a good day to catch people in a helpful mood. Bacon sandwich, B&Q, 3 pints down the pub, Antiques Road Show, give a mate a home. Standard Sunday fare really.
After that, I might take the tube into town and see a show, if I can find a tout who won't rape my wallet. I'm not sure whether to go high-brow or low-brow. The woman who sits to my right on our Computer Pod told me Michelle Dockery is in Pygmalion at the Old Vic. I've had a crush on her since The Hogfather was on a couple of Christmases ago. Either that, or I’ll get my secret fix of Queen music at The Dominion. That’ll cheer me up (unless I remind myself Ben Elton was involved). I haven't decided if I'll go on my own or place a booty call first. Maybe I could test out the sex mix-disk to see what all the fuss is about.

As for what I'll do once the job and home are gone...
I watched my box set of The Long Way Round again over the last few days. There's a few places I wouldn't mind going to, if the old banger will get that far. The bone church in Kutna Hora, and some bits of Russia looked worth seeing. Maybe while I'm at it I could get a Russian Bride without paying the internet people traffickers. Cut out the middle man.

Night!

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Setting out.

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I have to admit I've only read one blog before, and that was on the BBC. I didn't read it again.The chances are you won't come back to this one either. Just like a million other voices in a shouting contest, most people don't want to hear any of them. It's here all the same.

This blog probably looks a little simple, but having seen some of the templates available for free that's a good thing. It would only end up looking like a mid 90's home page, or a bloody awful tiled affair like the average myspace nightmare.

Anyway, that's all just nervous preamble to make sure I'm not a chimp in disguise, struggling to operate the most basic of web tools with non-opposable thumbs. My blog 'proper' will start now.

I'm 28. I sell stuff people don't want at prices they can't afford, but the law says they have to have it. I say the same few hundred words 50 times a day, and do the same little conversational dance with an endless list of bored customers, trying to pry their credit card details from them that will buy them a slip of paper and half a ton of bullshit.

I live in a flat I can barely afford, in a part of town that the rats only go out in if they're armed. I drive a car that runs on prayers and blind hope. My diet is mainly pasta, noodles, and mashed potato from a tin. All three are usually dusted in Herbs de Provence and/or ketchup, and accompanied by either fish fingers, Findus crispy pancakes or, if I'm feeling exotic, frickadellen from the East European butcher. Occasionally I really throw caution to the wind and order a pizza from Dominos. They don't even ask my address when I order any more. I don't know if it's my voice or the choice of toppings they recognise.

My neighbours downstairs only listen to The Prodigy, and usually the same 4 tracks at a volume just loud enough to get right on my tits. The neighbours upstairs have a bed that squeaks badly, and they always have sex on Mondays and Thursdays at 10pm exactly. It usually lasts around 20 minutes, and they always play the same mix-tape to try and hide the moaning and groaning - and to set the rhythm (the squeaks always fit the beat). Born Free belted out by Andy Williams is my 1 minute warning to turn the TV up, and they usually finish during Dreadlock Holiday by 10cc, or Pretty Flamingo by Manfred Mann. There must be some sort of Pavlovian conditioning by now. I should try and switch the neighbours' music collections one day.

My own life tends to have a blues, soul, and reggae soundtrack rather than 90s dance, and my sex life has a far more varied timetable than the couple upstairs. Sometimes they seem to get more action than me, sometimes not. For the last 3 months they've made me look like a monk. I broke up with my last girlfriend, Tammy, because I wasn't ready to consider having a band on my finger, and trips to Toys 'R' Us replacing trips to Ann Summers. Well, she broke up with me.

So it's the same shit, different day, for weeks on end. I'm going to end it though, and soon. Not with a noose, or fucking up some poor bastard's life by becoming a hood-ornament on the circle line. I'm just going to jack it all in.

I've got my resignation letter printed and ready, but I don't trust my line manager so I'm waiting until pay-day. I doubt they'll make me work my notice. I'll ring up a few friends and see if someone can put me up for a while, and I'll just quit the flat. The landlord can keep his deposit. He'll only invent some shit to keep it, or send his nephews round to break something worthless so he can deduct the same value anyway.

That all sounds a bit bitter and depressed. I'm not!
I'm just bored and don't want to bimble down the same lines and suddenly realise I'm 45 and without a single anecdote to embarrass the kids with - assuming some day that I'll end up ditching toys bought from Jacqueline Gold for Geoffrey the Giraffe's.

Only when I'm unemployed and homeless will I attempt to work out what I'll do next. A spot of hitch-hiking around to some seasonal jobs will probably make me happy for about a week so I won't do that. I need to fill a good few months!

Maybe I'll walk to somewhere like Rome for the hell of it.

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