Decisions, decisions...I've got to make a major one, and I'm wretched at being decisive. I always have been. I think I've mentioned before my maniacal fear of faits acomplis. Whenever I happen across a decision tree in life and am forced at gunpoint to favour one path over another, I spend the next five years fruitlessly musing on what I might be missing. I'm no Bertrand Russell, am I?
My problem at pres is that I need to change jobs. I'm not being 'let go' or anything, but I am on the cusp of self-harming due to boredom. So it's time to jolly off. This is complicated by the fact that I don't want simply to swap one desk-bound, Kafkaesque McJob for another. I need to do something with what remains of my life and sanity; I need to be able to behold the tangible fruits of my labours at the end of hard day. Is that too much to ask, Britain?
When I was 15, I had a careers interview at school. I didn't know what I wanted to do other than avoid drudgery. This was more difficult than it sounded. My people don't have careers; careers are for the middle-classes. We had jobs, and the one thing that unified these jobs was our hatred of them. Jobs were boring, exhausting and poorly-rewarded.
What muddied the waters further was the fact that I was good at academic subjects and was slated to sit a lot of exams at the end of my compulsory schooling. The careers adviser, not unreasonably, suggested I might like to take up a profession. I hummed and hawed at this. I said I would consider it if one could be found that involved a practical element. I even then wanted to do something on a physical plane.
But, no, I was dragooned into becoming a be-suited functionary. I was able to ignore the existential angst this caused me for years, but the pressure's built up and is now becoming intolerable. I need to change tack.
Prepare to jibe.
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