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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