prison break

The worst thing about losing your job is trying to come up with a glam reason for leaving. No one’s going to believe you’ve been poached by NASA, but keep it realistic and vaguely mysterious, and everyone that’s still employed will wish they weren’t. I’ve essentially been dumped, so I’ve got three weeks to lose ten kilos, walk around saying touch base into a headset all day, and wear keys and swipe cards that say ‘you fools’ with every jingle. Not because I want my job back – I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, but I don’t. Truly.

Unfortunately the last few people who’ve left have all had impressive reasons for going. All I’ve got is a limited amount of practical skills, no common sense and a Humanities Degree that’s got Centrelink’s contact details on the bottom of the testamur. I’m not being modest – I actually have zero common sense, which doesn’t mean I’m not brilliant, it just makes me the cat that’s compensated for impaired vision with extraordinary hearing.

If anybody’s got suggestions about how to exit gracefully, let me know – this is how it will play out otherwise:

Megan will be finishing up at the end of Christmas, and we’ll be saying goodbye to her because she is, well… people lean forward expectantly because… because I’ve got three weeks to live, I finish, with a little too much gusto for someone in my position. Then I say, with only a slight tremble in my voice – Hey, but don’t worry about me – we’ve got a company to run people!!

Every suggestion helps.