Leaving

Last Monday commute. I avoid the 15 minute/7 train wait at Liverpool St and walk to Bank between the city guys and gals, every third one of them carrying a Starbucks (or clone), coffee. Many of the women are wearing trainers and the men are tie-less, presumably they suit up once they get into the office. Despite the purpose of it, I do love the city with its ridiculous glass towers and hidden churchyards and sushi bars and its emptiness at the weekends.

 

I hate leaving jobs because everyone is so nice to you and says nice things about you and pretends things will collapse without you and you start to change your mind about going, especially as I have not yet got to the stage in this job when the thought of going to work is less preferable to drowning myself in a ditch. Also, I don’t like big emotional things, I get embarrassed easily and the Asperger’s syndrome start to kick in. The accounts gal just gave me a token for Borders; I hate Borders but I’m rife with PMT and almost burst into sentimental tears.

 

Conversely the Deputy Head came into the reception office this morning and said: I think I need an easier job, I’ll answer the phones today, ha ha. I wondered if after the 40^th call from a parent who doesn’t quite speak English saying they had a message but they don’t know who it was from or what it was about and they need to speak to someone. Or someone saying: I’ve just done 1471 and you rang me. Or a teacher coming in saying they want an item of stationery and being unhappy when you point (they want it handed personally to them), or needing to deal with a visitor, bleeding child and three phone calls all at once. The life of an admin gal is not an irritated one.

 

Last day of getting up at 7 a.m. I will do some yoga moves in the extra morning time that I will have. I bet.

 

What happens to all those people, the ones you worked with, went to school and college with, knew on the indiepop scene? Not the people you’re friends with but the acquaintances. Thinking about people I knew makes them seem like ghosts somehow, I don’t expect them ever to pop up, but people do, don’t they, on reality TV programmes, as popstars, as criminals or death statistics. Someone must have been to school with e.g. Cat Deeley and find it hilarious that she’s on the telly. No-one I ever knew ever got really famous, for the right or wrong reasons. So they just disappear, off the radar, not on Friends Reunited and you (or if you’re me, you do) invent histories for them until you actually start to believe that Lisa Fenton took over her dad’s butchers business or Jayne Collingsworth married someone who beat her up and so she moved to Ireland.

 

 

Leaving

Last Monday commute. I avoid the 15 minute/7 train wait at Liverpool St and walk to Bank between the city guys and gals, every third one of them carrying a Starbucks (or clone), coffee. Many of the women are wearing trainers and the men are tie-less, presumably they suit up once they get into the office. Despite the purpose of it, I do love the city with its ridiculous glass towers and hidden churchyards and sushi bars and its emptiness at the weekends.

 

I hate leaving jobs because everyone is so nice to you and says nice things about you and pretends things will collapse without you and you start to change your mind about going, especially as I have not yet got to the stage in this job when the thought of going to work is less preferable to drowning myself in a ditch. Also, I don’t like big emotional things, I get embarrassed easily and the Asperger’s syndrome start to kick in. The accounts gal just gave me a token for Borders; I hate Borders but I’m rife with PMT and almost burst into sentimental tears.

 

Conversely the Deputy Head came into the reception office this morning and said: I think I need an easier job, I’ll answer the phones today, ha ha. I wondered if after the 40^th call from a parent who doesn’t quite speak English saying they had a message but they don’t know who it was from or what it was about and they need to speak to someone. Or someone saying: I’ve just done 1471 and you rang me. Or a teacher coming in saying they want an item of stationery and being unhappy when you point (they want it handed personally to them), or needing to deal with a visitor, bleeding child and three phone calls all at once. The life of an admin gal is not an irritated one.

 

Last day of getting up at 7 a.m. I will do some yoga moves in the extra morning time that I will have. I bet.

 

What happens to all those people, the ones you worked with, went to school and college with, knew on the indiepop scene? Not the people you’re friends with but the acquaintances. Thinking about people I knew makes them seem like ghosts somehow, I don’t expect them ever to pop up, but people do, don’t they, on reality TV programmes, as popstars, as criminals or death statistics. Someone must have been to school with e.g. Cat Deeley and find it hilarious that she’s on the telly. No-one I ever knew ever got really famous, for the right or wrong reasons. So they just disappear, off the radar, not on Friends Reunited and you (or if you’re me, you do) invent histories for them until you actually start to believe that Lisa Fenton took over her dad’s butchers business or Jayne Collingsworth married someone who beat her up and so she moved to Ireland.