No 5 (Jobless + 3 days)

I want to ride my bicyle

My period of unemployment, brief though it has thus far been, has lead to an exponential rise in my cycling activity. From starting point of never cycling at all, that is. I have now, on at least two occasions, actually unchained my rusty, wheeled steed from its iron railing stables and taken it for a squeaky ride through the perilous streets of East London. Like the female Lance Armstrong of Bethnal Green, sans yellow jersey and huge thighs, of course (although if I heed my Mother's scaremongering pronouncements about cycling, my thighs are soon to be gargantuan).

I have discovered that there are a lot of Hoxton-trendy cyclists in East London. All tousled hair (un-helmeted I might add) and scuffed-up brogues, insouciantly cutting up pedestrians. I, on the other hand, look like some young Margaret Thatcher of the noughties, all bouffant ginger hair escaping from my bobble hat, which is squashed under my reinforced cycling helmet (can't put a price on safety, after all). I also seem to be unable to hone my braking capabilities. I frequently find myself careering artlessly towards the back of buses and the side of cars, further upping my cool levels.

My first cycling trip took me to the dentist. A near miss from a car door which was opened at an inopportune moment, an expletive tirade from one of the afore-mentioned hipster cyclist twats and a battle through heavy snow and I was there. However, concern for my personal safety did not leave me once I had reached the dentist and tied up the bicycle.

I am swiftly getting the impression that my dentist is the most passive aggressive man I have ever met. So super friendly to me, yet a man with an extraordinary penchant for extracting my teeth at such a heady rate, I fear he may be selling them off on the dental black market to fund some out of control mouthwash habit. Two wisdom teeth out in two visits.


So it is not without a certain amount of trepidation that I made my way to his torture chair once more.

My dentist, as well as being overly handy with the pliers, has, on my prior visits, also seemed to labour under the belief that I am 5 years old.

Him: Why so nervous love, what are you so worried about?

Me: The fact that both you and the 28 stone dental nurse called Precious are leaning over my numb and wrenched open mouth with tools not unlike those you might find in the cupboard of some S&M practitioner from the Middle Ages.

Him: There now love, once this is all over I think you'll deserve a sticker, don't you think, Precious?

Me: Uggggthhththmmmmm (there now appears to be some kind of dental dyson in my mouth, sucking out all my saliva)

Him: Now love, this won’t hurt at all (lies, vicious dental lies), you won’t feel the pressure (are you kidding me? It feels like you are balancing an articulated lorry on my tooth). Tell me, have you heard that Gordon Brown's handwriting is very bad? Have you heard about his glass eye? Did you read they think he's going blind? Now that's not very good, is it?

Me: uththtuthmmmmth, ffttthhh (Translation: huh? Is he attempting to distract me from the large knife contraption in his hand with Daily Mail politics? I try to point out that David Blunkett seemed to manage, until his multiple affairs, of course. Although, I feel my point is undermined slightly by my inability to speak thanks to the plethora of metal instruments playing percussion in my mouth.)

Him: There all done now (holding up my bloodied tooth). Precious, do we have any lollies?

This time, thankfully, there are no extractions. Merely a short nip round my mouth with the dental dyson and a rub on my arm and I am free to saddle up the bike and return from whence I came.

This is pleasing, for my new non-earning status leaves little spare cash for expensive dental treatment. I have decided to prioritise and the teeth, having had a short reign at the top, have now been demoted to the bottom of my list of things on which to spend money. Happily, as well as being cash poor now, I am also more tooth poor, so hopefully those teeth remaining will behave. Otherwise I shall be toothless as well as jobless and ginger, a heady combination probably to be avoided.

No 4 (Jobless + 1 day)

Please Mister Postman

I am wrapped in approximately twenty layers of wool (temperature Arctic, heating useless). Two lip balm stained mugs by my side, splatterings of coffee across the kitchen table. Computer on and blinking vacantly at me. Head empty. Think I’ll make another cup of coffee.

So this is unemployment.


The postman rang the doorbell at about 11:45 am with a package for Mr Reynolds next door. Not having been home on a weekday for about six years, meeting the postman fills me with some excitement. Accepting the big brown box, I start thinking about the fact that I have lived in my house for about three years and have never had any contact with Mr. Reynolds. What if this suspiciously large package is some kind of explosive device, a special ordering of fertiliser for some homemade pyrotechnics? I check the label. John Lewis. OK, fine. Although, on second thoughts, if you were in the business of supplying dodgy chemicals you probably wouldn’t label the packages as from “House of Fertiliser” or “Explosives-R-Us”, would you?

Such musings are curtailed by the arrival of Mr. Reynolds himself to claim his package, all smiling crinkly face and old man duffle coat. Thinking he was probably not prime demographic material for dabbling in concerning chemicals, I hand the goods to him. Whilst maintaining a wary expression, of course. After all, a friendly granddad demeanour would be the perfect cover for an East End group of terrorists (for I know these sorts hang out in Bethnal Green; it was on Spooks last week).


Excitement over, I return to my kitchen and the accusatory glare of my laptop screen. Cue more vacant blinking (this time from me). Another cuppa, then?

No 3 (Jobless - minus 5 days)

So Real

Working out a notice period is a strange kind of limbo, especially when you’ve jacked in your job with no alternative employment. No one can hate me for defecting to a competitor and no one is bothering to cosy up to me in the hope that there may be a place for them in some brave new legal world I am entering.

My resignation has, however, encouraged fellow lawyers to make hasty tracks to my office to observe me as if I were some kind of new and confusing zoo exhibit. By their reactions, my colleagues tend to fall into two camps:

i) The Institutionalised

The law can engender a kind of wide eyed devotion (or Stockholm syndrome as I like to think of it). Lawyers can become slavish to the partners for whom they work. Viewing them as demi-gods, they frequently describe them as “my partner” and, indeed, treat them as some kind of Donald Trump a-like sugar daddy (for the partners are, almost without exception, male). Instead of a few quick rolls in the sack in exchange for a designer bag and a bijou flat in Mayfair, lawyers provide a steady supply of grunt work and late night IT support in exchange for a word or two of appreciation and the possibility of a profile raising position on the Health and Safety Committee (all counts towards partnership, y’ know).

For the Institutionalised, working consistently until 3 in the morning becomes a badge of honour to flash in the faces of your less committed colleagues who dare to leave before the clock clicks into the am. The ability to check up on hours you have billed translates into the most inane of competitions, as those who have had a heavy month attempt to slip this into conversations with their less busy colleagues. “Oh, you know, I managed to bill like 8,976 hours, just this week. It’s tiring but, well, my clients are relying on me”. OK love, perish the thought that anyone forgets for a moment that you are single-handedly propping up capitalism, one hour of proof reading at a time. What would the Fortune 500 do without you?

Often the Institutionalised take my resignation as their cue to interrogate me on what I had always imagined to be private matters:

"How will you pay your rent?"
"Are you leaving because you are getting married/having kids?”
"Do you have enough money saved?"
“Do you have any mental health problems?”
“Are you a Communist?”

What makes these people think I am suddenly about to share with them intimate details of my finances, family planning choices and political persuasions?

I’ve found the best tactic is to avoid them at all costs, which would be easy if the Institutionaliseds did not so regularly visit my office to tell me that they always suspected the firm didn't suit me (read ‘can't hack the hours’), that they were sure I would find something more suitable (read ‘something more frivolous, probably without spreadsheets’) and to ask when was my last day again (read ‘you’ve got a really great view, I want your office’).

ii) The Dreamers

The equivalent to those child actors whose star waned irreparably once they hit puberty. Broken voiced, acne scarred and washed up at a tender age. They started out brimming with dreams of a life of fame and showbiz glory after a starring role in a sold-out run of some West End musical aged 12, only to find themselves, nearing middle age, selling mortgages and driving pimped up Ford Fiestas, telling tales of their precocious and long since dimmed talent over pints of Stella and a pack of B&H to anyone who’ll listen.

The legal Dreamers were bright academic over-achievers who had the world at their feet at school and could have done pretty much anything. As impoverished students, the law came calling and they found themselves at the age of 23, the most highly paid photocopiers in London.

Some of those in this camp, most of whom have not spoken to me since our perfunctory welcome chat when I joined the firm, have felt it necessary to open up to me about their plans for the future. I find myself unwittingly pulled into chats, which could more aptly be described as mini counselling sessions. Desperate to sneak off early of an evening to drink with saner folk or to escape to my sofa, I am instead drawn into conversations about colleagues’ aspirations to become writers (all lawyers seem to be frustrated writers.....ahem), psychologists, florists and shoe designers. Crazy, creative plans to overturn the years of churning out corporate documents. Not right now though, you understand, but definitely in the future. For sure.


A little bit of me does want to shake them and ask what they thought they were getting into in the first place. A lot of me wants to shake myself and ask the same question.

Yet still, as days of getting my monthly wage draw to a close with a horrible swiftness, I can feel the panic rising. Five more working days to go. Five more days until unemployment. Five more days until freedom. So why does freedom feel so constricting? I wake up in the night in a hot sweat. What if I never get a job? What if my talents really are restricted to dictating sniffy letters and organising documents? What if I discover I really do find data analysis interesting? What if I end up hanging out with the local Bethnal Green Communists just to fill the empty unemployed days? Maybe cutting out some of the incessant rhetorical questions might be a start.