Sometimes saying goodbye is easier than saying hello

Didn’t last long. About a week.

I walked into work on Tuesday with the express intention of leaving as soon as possible. I sat at my desk, horrified by the idea of having to answer the phone. As my official job title was ‘phone answerer’, I felt I was somehow letting the side down. Besides, it was a cracking day outside. So I spoke to my line manager who spoke to his line manager, who spoke to his line manager, who spoke to her line manager who asked me if it was ok for a temp to quit on day six. I said “fine”. Ten minutes later my line manager got back to me with the good news. He said that I could leave whenever but, you know, for good form, would I like to see it out till the end of the day? “Not really”, I said, already unlocking my bike and putting on my riding pantaloons.

I offered my goodbyes to those I knew. Most of them shot me pleading, envious looks. I felt a bit like McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. One of them grabbed my hand and said “c-c-c-c-could y-y-y-you take me? P-p-p-please”. I said, already puffing up, feeling as big as a house, “Hot damn, Gareth! This ain’t no time for stalling.” And with that I took hold of a large desk and threw it at the window. I watched the pane shatter and give way to the immense weight as the table disappeared, shortly before the sound of wood-on-car reached the office. I drank in the glorious sound and peered out of the hole I’d made in the side of the building. I was just about to escape and run for the same spot of road as that significant dog earlier on in the novel, when I remembered I was on the second floor. Best take the stairs then.*

Having cycled halfway home I thought I better actually tell someone at Office Angels that I had just left. When I rang, I explained to the chirpy woman (who was weirdly less chirpy than I remembered her) that I had just left. The words “but you can’t just leave” were heard, but looking around at the cars, the buildings and the little bits of broken glass on the road, it became apparent that I had done just that! She asked me why. I was having a hard time trying to explain. What I meant to say was that sometimes, you know, you can't really be arsed with learning complex agricultural law for a temporary position that pays shit and entails me listening to farmers whinge at me from afar while I sit in a gloomy office with a slightly crap headset with only one ear piece, making it very hard to hear - resulting in me feeling both distracted and suicidal.

What I actually said was more akin to the kind of mundane conversation heard during the break-up of a relationship in a soap opera. The words “it’s not the job, it’s me,” were, if not actually, then very nearly, said.

So today. A free man. I sit and write this having booked myself a few holidays. Two trips to Manchester to see The Arcade Fire and Sigur Ros; and a trip to the Sage, Gateshead to see Jandek. Feeling rather excited about all that music and travel ahead, I’ve been printing some stencilled designs and recording some music in my room. All in all rather satisfactory. Being unemployed is brilliant.



*Stairs bit is true. I did take the stairs.