I don't know though- from that last post down there you could be absolutely forgiven for thinking I'm really starting to regret this rash move of leaving the bosom of Corporation X, and have become desperate to return to the world of flanges. I'm not- really I'm not. Hell, of course there are stressful moments- but as Joella, Looby, Ben and Eeourjohn (among other commenters whose views I welcome and respect) have pointed out along the way, most of these can be put down to the sheer newness of everything right now- and if there is one thing certain about a dose of newness, it is that a case of the heebiejeebies will be following right along behind. And as Joella (who has had first-hand experience of leaping into the abyss, and who strikes me as very perceptive and sensible) said the other day, a case of the Heebiejeebies is not necessarily such a bad thing, and is even, sometimes, to be recommended.
No- let's keep things in perspective here. And let's not forget what made me cut out that advert in the Guardian in the first place (it wasn't really the Guardian by the way, it was the Manchester Evening News- but absolutely the part of the Manchester Evening News which has the dream public sector jobs in, as opposed to the small-print ads at the back looking for time-served joiners, whatever that means, and seamstresses for Ardwick sweatshops). I cut out the ad because I had taken to spending several minutes a week face-down on the desk with my head in my hands, too demoralised by the moronic, demonic catatonia of it all to tackle the fortieth fucking flange order of yet another endless, thankless afternoon.
No, there may have been something romantic, existential and quintessentially European about the life of a lowly clerk, but it would in all certainty have led me to an early alcoholic grave. Whereas this new job- hell, it could still lead me to an early alcoholic grave (and this post, in case you have not worked it out already, is fuelled by one and a half bottles of Cobra, and I'm talking about the big bottles here) but at least there's a half-chance I may get some variety to my nine to five existence along the way. If intervening on a daily basis in fierce internecine gang-warfare between rival factions of suburban old ladies can be described as variety (and I think it probably can).
So- rest assured folks that I do realise, really, despite occasional appearances to the contrary, how damn lucky I am to have escaped from that stultifying, stupefying Corporation X sales office with my sanity just about- just about- intact. And you know what? If I ever seem to have forgotten about those desperate afternoons with my face down on the flange-team desk, when it was all I could do to not to throw myself out of the first-floor window and leave myself at the mercy of the thundering Mancunian Way traffic below and end up as a footnote to the city's traumatic post-industrial history, you will be reminding me of my absolutely unbelievable good fortune, won't you? I am relying on all you kind people now, don't forget.