It was an odd last week, largely due to the fact that I was actually doing some work (which is practically unheard of). Therefore it didn't really feel like the end.
Since I handed in my notice I'd said quite specifically I didn't want a leaving presentation. To me, they smack of rank hypocrisy - 'We'd like to thank Dave for all the hard work he's done. We really appreciate all the effort you've put in' - no you don't, that's why I'm leaving! For many staff the only time senior management have a good word to say to them is on their leaving presentation. I always see it as being less about recognising the people who are leaving, more about settling down those who are staying - 'look, we're a caring organisation, we say nice things about our staff'. Therefore I did not want to be part of that charade. I know it may sound churlish gentle reader, but that's the way I feel.
Obviously my wishes were not to be complied with; I'm informed that they're going to do the presentation anyway at the end of the day. So, at 4.50pm I slip away down the back stairs - fuck em.
Leaving early does give me the opportunity to get ready for the leaving do I actually wanted - drinks with a dozen or so of the people in the company I'll miss.
6pm we're in the pub, having a light meal before the off. Not doing the traditional restaurant thing has a number of advantages: people don't have to play seating plan lottery to see who they're going to be talking to for the next two hours; it avoids all that unnecessarily time consuming eating which so cuts into your drinking time; and most importantly my boss can't make a speech.
Then it's a selection of bars before falling into what is allegedly my favourite nightclub. Allegedly, because on any rational level I wouldn't go near it. But, drunk and nostalgic, it calls to me with reminiscences of nights a decade ago (more the scent of stale cider and black than madeleines).
Needless to say the music is utterly appalling. Anyone who mixes (and I use the term loosely) 'I Think We're Alone Now', 'Summer of 69', and 'Final Countdown' is seriously taking the piss. Obviously we dance our assess off regardless. When I take to the podium to lay down some air-guitar licks on 'I Believe in a Thing Call Love' you can tell the ladies are impressed. Including my blonde poppet who's finally made an appearance.
I'd like to say we ended the evening locked in an embrace, drunkenly bawling 'Angels' into each others ears, but it was not to be. We lost each other in the club. Which means I get to go home with a couple of managers from Strategy. No a good substitute, since their idea of a good way to end the evening is to drink tequila until VH1 Classic turns from 'Rock by Night' to 'Smooth by Day' (about 6ish if you're at all interested).
The lesson learnt from this is, if you've spent the early hours downing a shot every time Tommy Vance give a station ident, don't leave your mobile phone on, on the bedside table. Conversely if you do, you may get a phonecall like this:
Blonde Poppet 'Hi, I'm in bed at the moment'
I resist the somewhat obvious what are you wearing question, and let my imagination fill in the blanks
Me 'Did you get home alright'
BP 'Yeah, X asked my back to his place for a three-way with his wife, but I didn't fancy it'
We agree that Xs wife is quite stunning, but X himself appears to have his face on backwards. Ok, she's in bed, I'm in bed, we're talking about three-way sex - I can think of worse alarm calls.
BP - 'So can I come over for breakfast?'
Young women, they're very forward these days, I blame the Spice Girls.
She'll be round in thirty minutes, just enough time for a bit of tidying up. Which goes a little something like this - 'right you two, there's a lady coming round, which means: no scratching of genitals, belching, farting, or using the word roast in any context'.
So the little poppet comes round, and gets breakfast. This comes as somewhat of a disappointment to her. Now I know she's not here for 'breakfast', you know she's not here for 'breakfast', even the Strategy monkeys know she's not put on that sexy little number, made herself up and driven half and hour to my place for 'breakfast'. But breakfast is what she's getting.
I'm feeling old enough to be her grandfather let alone her father. The last thing I need at the moment is sex with the energiser bunny. I fear the performance would not reflect my best work (frankly I'm not prepared to leave FUKD plc with bad references). It'll hopefully keep 'til the New Year - In the words of my old boss, no-one remembers a late delivery, only a bad one.........
