I gave my notice at work last week. It’s a notoriously hard place to leave. I love my rut. I am lucky – they pay me lots of money, and it’s a very laid-back place. I dress more scruffily for work than I do for a lazy weekend at home. There is a steady supply of Lavazza. I sit in the corner, by the window. I enjoy uninhibited conversations with people I like. It’s well weapon.
Did I mention it’s laid-back? I could turn up for work two hours late swigging from an open bottle of whisky and I don’t think there would be any negative repercussions. I have taken naps under my desk on a couple of occasions. On my first day back at work after a two-week tour with my old band, I went home after just two hours, telling my boss, ‘This is exactly what it looks like, but I really have to sleep’. He just chuckled.
I used to work for a company where having a beer at lunchtime would result in disciplinary action. Here, to get yourself fired, you would have to turn up to a meeting with the Managing Director – reeking of alcohol – in which you complain you do not enjoy a fast enough internet connection for your recreational browsing at the company’s expense, before using a photograph of his children as inspiration for an impassioned plea that out of respect for aesthetics, he spread his seed no further. If he’s in a good mood, you might even have to piss on his desk for a p45-guaranteeing finalé.
I may never again have a job I don’t dislike as much as this one. However, my feet are itching, and this time it’s nothing to do with questionable sock hygiene. I’m recording some music with Guy this Autumn, putting stuff in boxes and doing a Gog while I still can. 20 working days to go.
I might see about getting a proper job when they get back. I choose to believe the National Institute of Smartarsery exists, and that they are planning a recruitment drive next summer.