Friday, August 20, 2010

Take your job and shove it

Following a bit of negotiation, Mum's house is sold [subject to contract]. If everything goes to plan (dare I dream that it will?), we'll be exchanging within a matter of weeks. So, the weight of the house sale has been lifted from me, for now. There's still some outstanding paperwork to consider. There I was, thinking that everything was accounted for and under control: the DWP really has outdone itself in managing to confuse the issue completely, and in quite an offensive way, which is super. I'll be giving them a bit of a talking-to next week.

The problem now will be dealing with her Mum's remaining possessions. This isn't something that anyone is looking forward to.

I've been catching up with more old friends, last night with Team CMINT, as they are sometimes known. Stories of life in the City at my old workplace were told, most of them terrifying. I've never been so pleased to leave any job, it just amazes me that there are still people who manage to show up to work and carry out their duties there, particularly when the atmosphere is so poisonous.

The Corporate City Life wasn't for me.

But then again, most jobs aren't for me.

Mine is a generation of people who were given little to no career advice. At school, I was told I'd go to college to do A levels, which I dutifully did. At college I was told to apply to Higher Education to do a degree. Again, I went along with it. At no point did I question the choices that were put before me, at no point did I consider that there might be another way.

I'm convinced this lack of advice is why most people of my age are such a bunch of whining sissies when it comes to work. Seemingly trapped in jobs that we consider it beneath us to do; finding ourselves working for an incompetent boss; unable to see what to do next, terrified that we'll end up in the gutter if we decide to give two fingers to our job.

I'm a fully paid-up whining sissy. I don't so much dread work as not really much care for it. I'm unable to take what I do seriously, because it's not what I want to do. But, when it comes down to - I have absolutely no idea exactly what it is that I want to do. And I haven't since I was a little girl (job of choice: author. I write a diary on the internet. Oh the irony).

Fact is though, change is coming. By this time next year, I want to be doing something different; if not, I want to be well on my way there. The time for copping out is gone. No more whining.

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Monday, August 09, 2010

Oh god how I love to hate

...and suddenly, I was transported back to 1991.

Last Friday night I was out in Spitalfields with an old chum, Mr Johns. We first met on the bus from Cullompton to Exeter in our first week at 6th form college...if you're looking for detail, I think we may have bonded over the possible merits of The Wonderstuff's upcoming album release, Hup. I'd love to apologise for that, but I can't remember anything about the abovementioned album. However, I do remember Miles Hunt. I rest my case.

Topics of conversation included the things you get offered in the gents toilets at London clubs, flats and flatmates of yore, Primal Scream (specifically why Bobby Gillespie should stop making records right away), and the genius of MGMT.

Anyway, fat was chewed, chins wagged, tactical sandwiches/Twixes bought, and tentative plans to go and see Mudhoney in October were made, in an effort to relive ye golden days of grunge.

Mum's house has had an potential offer put in on it, and there's lots to think about. My poor head can barely take it. Last night I sat about the flat, wishing that everything would miraculously be made easy for me, while JJ tested our stereo system with the first Goldfrapp album [which, to my mind, is still the best they've done]. This lyric jumped out:
I'm wired to the world, that's how I know everything
I am superbrain
That's how they made me
That's how they made me, indeed.