I handed in my notice today. I’ve never had to hand in my “notice” before. Notice of what, exactly? Intentions of an infidelious nature towards another place of employment? For fuck’s sake. I’ve always been freelance, on a short-term contract, or made redundant by a slowly atrophying magazine company so the responsibility of handing in one’s notice is an alien one.
Despite having a job with about as much use as scrubbing corns for a living, I adore the people I work with and given that I’d expressed sod all hint of upping and leaving beforehand, felt utterly mortified at the prospect of jumping this particular ship, however interminably boring.
Resignation went as follows:
Boss summons me to talk about new update to site. I grab sheafs of letters copied from drafts offered up by helpful Journobiz members and miserably ask him to come outside first in manner of hideous vet about to put down dog in Lady and the Tramp. Tell boss. Forget advice about keeping it simple. Actually use the phrase “it’s not you, it’s me”. Boss totally unfazed by my intention to leave. I hug boss for about three minutes apologising. Boss quite cheered at prospect of leaving party. Me nearly in tears. Office continues as normal.
Am now going to see Atonement and drink many, many cocktails of assorted flavours in Covent Garden, resting pathetically on Guy’s unimpressed shoulder until I feel either less hideous, or infinitely more so depending.