Working days to go: 12. The good thing about giving three months’ notice, is that few jobs short of brain surgery actually take that long to hand over to your successor – in my case, a couple of weeks was sufficient to do all the handovers to my pseudo-replacement. I say “pseudo”, since who can possibly hope to replace me? I mean, he’s a nice guy, but hey, he just doesn’t have my devastating good looks, personal charm and work ethic… Besides, he’s a Liverpool fan – although that brilliant goal against England last Saturday elevates Hamann to divine status as an honorary Scotsman [a big “Hi!” to Mal at this point would seem in order…]

Er, I digress. The main point is that work-wise, I’m doing nothing much beyond staring blankly at my screen and occasionally typing in stuff. [We’ll take the sarcastic comments of “And how precisely is that different from normal?” as read, thank you] And it’s intensely liberating not to give a damn. I have to say, I thoroughly recommend resigning – I think the past two months have been among the most enjoyable of my working life. Or rather giving-the-impression-of-working life, since as the days have ticked by, even that illusion has gradually faded. These days, I hardly even bother looking over my shoulder if I’m engaging in not strictly work activities; after all, in the phrase which has become my mantra, “What are they going to do – fire me?” Down the pub for three hours? “What are they going to do – fire me?” Refuse to work overtime? “What are they going to do – fire me?” Printing out dubious, TC-shaped items? “What are they going to do – fire me?”

Bliss. The single biggest threat which hangs over the head of all us wage slaves has been removed from me at a stroke. Even the ultimate sanction, “you’ll never work in this town again”, is of absolutely no use, since I have absolutely no intention of ever working in this town again. The thought strikes me that I could entirely re-invent myself, fabricate an entire new identity as I head off into the New World. I could be a priest; a member of the Witness Protection Program; a dispossesed aristocrat. But truth is, I actually quite like the identity I have, thank you very much: a sardonic media-junkie who believes the recent shut-down of his web site was due to the Babylonian Brotherhood, an ancient conspiracy of shape-shifting reptiloids…or perhaps not. Yes, that’ll do, I think.

However, I note that this resignation thing does appear to be infectious: house-mate Abigail has also handed in her resignation (and was last seen clutching a celebratory bottle of champagne!). Hers was similarly enforced by a move, though in this case, it was the job moving away from her which was the main trigger for the decision, after her company moved out to Orpington. Where that is precisely, I’m not sure, but it does not make for an easy commute from Tulse Hill — not least because you are going against the flow, so so speak. However, she is actually looking for another job, unlike myself, who is looking more for…well, a lottery win would make things simple. Still, all we have to do now is convince Steve to follow suit, and all the residents of TC Towers will be wandering around with relaxed, beatific grins on their under-employed faces…

If I do get employed in the States, I think I may hand in my resignation on the day I arrive. Do you think they’d mind me giving them five years notice? And to everyone else… Quit your jobs! Slack off! Buck the system! At least, I think that’s what my notes here say…