No 6. (Jobless + 2 weeks)

I will survive

My P45 arrived through the letterbox this morning. Like a box of my belongings, spare toothbrushes and odd socks, being sent to me by an ex-lover. The last vestiges of our life together landing unceremoniously on my doormat.

This may be a tired metaphor, but leaving a job you have fallen out of love with (if, in fact, it was ever love and not just a relationship of pure convenience – my soul in exchange for your money means clothes and food for me, in that order) is like leaving a long term relationship which has lost its sparkle.

When the realisation hits that that the days of romance and afternoon sex have long since faded and all you are left with are arguments, awkward silences and biannual sex with socks on, it’s time to leave. First comes the rush of euphoria, freedom is yours. You now have the liberty to kiss inappropriate boys, to flirt outrageously, to not shave your legs....etc. etc.

The second phase, however, is altogether less fun and lasts for so much longer. This is the point when you realise that there are no single men to flirt with, that all the good ones are taken and all the single ones are messed up narcissists with more baggage than Louis Vuitton and no room in their lives for you. What’s more, all your mates are paired off in long term relationships and have little time to hang out with your newly single self.

This is the moment when the nostalgia kicks in. The days of the relationship are seen through rose-tinted glasses as happier, more settled times. The lure of what you know and what is safe inspires fantasies about a reconciliation (it could be different this time, no?), ill-advised drunken phone calls to your ex and confessions to your friends that you are considering re-kindling the jaded relationship.

This is how unemployment currently feels to me. My glee at freedom (all leisurely lunches, jeans in the day and hassle free mid-week Christmas shopping) has given way to a mild panic and deep-seated unrest. I know this is merely a phase, but sometimes I think I want back the lacklustre lover that was my old job. I want us to bury our problems and go back to the security of our long, boring days and nights together. Maybe we can put behind us your pedantry and my lack of commitment. Can’t we make this work? For the sake of the kids?

Then I remember the mind-wrenchingly dull evenings of our time together, the demands, the stress, your obsession with spreadsheets and I realise that our parting was the right thing.

I am going to play some Gloria Gaynor, sing along loudly and get back on the market. The job market that is.