Dad tactic: Bore my son to sleep
Six months ago, I was called into my boss’s office and asked if I fancied a cup of tea.
‘Cheers. Milk, one sugar,’ I replied.
I needed the sucrose to sweeten what came next.
‘We’re going to have to let you go,’ he said.
I didn’t really hear what he said next because my heart was beating so loudly in my head. Something about cutbacks and re-shaping the business, nothing personal, these things happen, blah blah platitude platitude. I felt uncomfortably numb.
But by the time I returned to my own office, the news had sunk in: I’d lost my job.
‘Not to worry,’ I deludedly thought. ‘I’ll get another one.’
And so confident was I that I went home, proposed to the mother of my children then booked a wedding venue and an expensive family villa in Corsica for our honeymoon, blowing a significant chunk of my ‘pay-off’ in the process.
‘It’ll all be fine,’ I assured her.
And she believed me, because I believed me. Except I was wrong.
Six months on and, well, I’m writing this blog because I still can’t find paid employment. Oh, I’ve done/am doing plenty of paid/unpaid gigs in the hope they might lead to something, but as yet nothing to write home about. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, my kids, my home but I’m hard-wired to go to work…. to bring home the bacon, as well as hang, cure and cook it.
But I keep sending my CV, pitching ideas, applying for jobs. Something will happen… it’ll all be fine, we’ll be fine, something will turn up, bound to. That’s what my optimistic friends say, anyway.
Actually something has happened, something serendipitous. My wife, mother of our 2.5 children and freelance journalist aka working housewife, received a call from the company she left 10 years ago to have our kids. The boss asked her to lunch.
What happened next? I’ll let you know when I know…
