Living in the now, then

I think I might be undergoing une crise d'emploi, as we say on the riviera.  I'm absolutely bereft of concentration when at my place of work.  For the last couple of months or so my mind refuses to knuckle down and whittle away at the in-tray.  One always goes through peaks and troughs of application of course, but I don't think this is one of those.  It's more deep-seated than that.  I've basically fallen out of love with my job, not that I ever really fancied it that much, if I'm honest.  I just needed somewhere to lay my hat during the day.

And it's a vicious circle too, this inability to silence the voices and actually to type up the minutes of last Thursday's uneventful meetings, because as the time ticks by, one becomes ever more disheartened by the increasing pile of trivial tasks at hand.  This increases the inertia, and the problem grows at an exponential rate.

The problem is that I've mentally washed my hands of my current duties, but can't be bothered to end it.  It's like being locked in a loveless marriage.  I need the other party to force me out of the nuptial home because I'm too lily-livered to pull the trigger myself.  So I keep taking liberties in the hope that matters come to a head.  

In fact, a good old row with the job would help a lot.  Some hysterical screaming from yours truly along the lines of "You've changed.  There's no excitement any more.  I can't honestly say I love you at this stage in our relationship.", followed by some plate-hurling might do the trick.  Perhaps it is possible to save this car crash of a relationship after all.  Mind you, I have found myself trawling the web sites of employment agencies rather a lot of late, and furtively too.  Whenever anyone in the office catches me, I have to shut down the browser quickly and pretend I've been browsing classic 80s porn sites.  I generally don't like deceit, except when it makes for an easy life.  For me, I mean.

Tempus Fugit

We had drinks in the office last evening.  It was to mark the fact that one of our number had notched up 50 years' continuous service.  You heard me right, friend - 50 (five-o) years.  He's a charming chap, our demi-centurion, so it was a well-attended gathering.  The powers-that laid on food and strong drink in our boardroom, and a dozen or so  of us went at it.

We sat around the boardroom table and swigged from bottles of ale and swapped war stories.  I was probably in the mid-range of generations represented in the firm currently.  Despite the good humour and nascent drunkenness, I'm certain I detected a certain sadness in the room.  This was I think due to the feeling that 50 years in the service of one company, even one as broadly benign as this one, was probably one of the most unromantic ways in which a man could spend is tenure on Earth.

Now, we all of course will see out our careers in this way, i.e. as jobbing functionaries in uninspiring buildings around the capital.  But one never sees oneself in this role forever.  When one changes jobs every few years, there is always the possibility, albeit a VAGUE one, that something dramatic might intervene - relocation to the tropics perhaps, or retraining as a trapeze artist.  Our colleague's career starkly illustrated to us all that this probably won't happen.  Shit.

I left after an hour, the rest of the room moving on to the pub.  I couldn't face any more.  This morning I awoke to a partially-crushed spirit, so I phoned the office and pulled I sickie.  I didn't lie; I told them I woke up feeling terrible, which is quite true.

I spent the rest of the day painting the chimney breast in the front room, hoping that a romantic seque in life's journey might fall into my lap.  It's 7:30pm now.  The chimney breast is roasted red, but I am as-was, staring down the barrel of another dull day at work tomorrow.  Oh, well, I tried.

"Pass the Quavers, would you?  How 'bout those Gooners, eh?"