Paul McCartney

I've been away for a while enjoying (enduring) what I think was an existential breakdown. I turned 40 years old 2 Saturdays ago. I celebrated by taking time off. Time off from work, from sobriety, from decision making, from hope, and from any real semblance of rational thought. The day itself was fine, great in fact, but the run up and come down were horrific. Every fibre of my being refusing to contemplate in an anyway positive manner the 40 year old nature of my existence and the disappointments and flaws therein. Nice.

I felt old. But I got through it and came out of the other side feeling . . .old.

Then I came back to work and felt hungover and old. Everyone here is bored of touting for business that isn't there. Everyone is holding their position. The constant noise is white. It's banter across the desks and desperation on the phones. Us non-breeders console ourselves with knowing we're saving on the gas bill by coming into work and the family guys worry if the wife's got their heating on right now, burning the money he can't find. We have some deals but the difference to 2 years ago is stunning. Even the banter is cheaper.

At first I enjoyed a brief recession boosted feeling of elation based on thinking that for once I was the lucky one as I have nothing to lose - my flaps have been in the vice financially for fifteen years, but now I've realised that what affects my benefactors affects me. No more free lunches, just the occasional pint and a "times are tough" chat. It's no way to live - hungry and not pissed enough. It's not the team environment of old. And definitely not the City environment of the nineties - that's how I fell into this line of work, Veuve Cliquot and City boys, drunk and high for 4 years. Aaaah, bless me and my 16 year career plateau. It's a trajectory of sorts, surely?

So, to refer to the title of this post, I have finally found the inspiration to move forwards and finally become a recognisable acheiver (of something). That inspiration is Paul McCartney. He was being interviewed on Front Row and I suddenly thought if a mental, talentless fuck like Paul McCartney can do what he's done, then surely there is indeed hope for us all.

SeccyPahHumbug

Stayin' Alive

Twas the weekend before payday and all through the house nothing was stirring not even a mouse. In fairness the Cat-Dog (long story . . .9 kilo cat, growls alot, Spurs fan, wasn't my idea) has killed and eaten any mice who didn't evacuate the day we got him. Housemate A gets paid a week before me so is probably out spending or out avoiding any attempts from me to borrow money.

I'm here at home, happy to be alone as I'm a bit grumpy when broke. Funny that, you don't really see many chuffed to bits poverty stricken homeless people - unless they're pissed or high. I know we are a million styles and sizes away from being in each others shoes but it's a thin line and a fun fair mirror of sameness. As in yes, I'm happier when I'm out of it too. Thing is I have a life to be getting on with that goes further than than the next drink. OK so sometimes it doesn't, but you'll never find me jigging about asking for change or sleeping on the street. But don't tell my bosses. I like to let them think that I could end up there if they don't up my wage. You see, I am a wage slave. To lose my job tomorrow would not plunge me into Lehman-like despair, as my line of work employs many temps (never contractors), but I would have to get working again straight away, I could not afford to take time out as I live life hand to mouth on a monthly scale. By the last week of the month it's hand to mouth daily.

Luckily I have always been slightly uncomfortable with the concept of pride. On the whole I know it is a good thing and if it did not exist then whole communities would dissolve into nihilistic lethargy, but when present at the micro level it seem too close to ego for my liking. To my mind there are times when pride goes out of the window of it's own accord and you look back thinking WTF happened there? and there are times when you have to consciously relinquish pride, to swallow it. So along with this pride I am swallowing porridge for breakfast AND lunch at work, dropping in a few references to gruel as I eat it, subconsciously evoking Victorian servitude and hoping to inspire a little guilt. Or at least an invitation to lunch before rickets sets in. I have resisted the urge to stage a rummage through a nearby Pret A Mangy's rubbish bins when I know Directors are coming out of the building.

When no invitation is forthcoming I rely on coffee & cigarettes to kill the hunger until I'm jittery, glaring at my team whilst crying on the phone to the bank. Nothing to be proud of there, see? Occasionally this will coincide with the arrival of my period - even hungrier and more upset, great. I really should be signed off on those days. Then I could really test Barclays customer service staff by sitting on the phone for hours crying and demanding a loan simply because it's hell being me and I need more money,loudly declaring prostitution my only course of action should they continue to deny my request for more money. I generally follow these incidents with a fag and moan outside with a fellow secretary who is forced to live above and work in a pub when she is not working here. We generally consider making ourselves bankrupt.

So, to fill this weekend I have borrowed a company laptop and shall be blogging, burning and emailing. And maybe a bit of work to justify the loan in the first place.
Another reason I can't go out is that I have snapped my glasses in two and am looking very strange as they slide down my face, held together with surgical tape. I have new specs on the way - thanks to the patronage of my employer - an eye test on the firm and a £30 pair of specs courtesy of my line manager who didn't want me whingeing or using the broken specs as an excuse to skip work until I got new ones after payday. God bless him, I'm pleased I'm getting them sooner. I get grumpy when I can't see, and come to think of it you DO see more happy blind people than happy homeless people, so better to be blind than broke. I am currently grumpy cos broke and grumpy cos blind. I think I'd better stay in. Alone. Roll on Friday.

Seccypa aka Wageslave

Lunch Hours are Rarely That

Well, having left my desk at 11.50 to avoid the crowds of chill cabinet cruisers all searching for that Holy Grail of a reasonably priced (hell, CHEAP) sandwich in London's West End. Luckily, the credit crunch has led to a credit munch range of truly shit sandwiches in Tesco metro. Point is, I purchased the sandwich, had it opened but untouched on my desk whilst doing some personal banking (not rhyming slang) - unopened allows you to tut and say "I'm on lunch" if anyone approaches with work. Wouldn't recommend this as an eight hour thing though, then I ate it (slowly) whilst reading online news, then it's off for a fag, back to desk and settling down to write this. A resounding one hour and thirty two minutes since I "started" my lunch hour. The other secretaries scarpered as soon as I got to the "sandwich unwrapped on desk" stage. They may not be back til Tuesday. Dam, I've given myself the fear. Time to get back to work, but first to find out who is the psychopath eating boiled onions for lunch. He stinks.

Keep lunching

Seccypa