Personally, I don't think people should have to work five days a week. If your job isn't your career, you don't have kids, and you don't have something else lined up, working five days a week doesn't bring much other than a serious mental health risk.
The End of an Old Life depicts this, but with an added twist to reflect the desensitising nature of a soulless workplace.
Pirates and Emperors, mate. I’m at work five days a week with four weeks’ holiday a year, one of which I have to take at Christmas. Add to that a boss who takes three times that much time away at their holiday home in the French Alps. Anyone will decide that just because they’re always at work doesn’t mean they’re going to be working. I’d relish the thought of calling them out on that. But I don’t.
I encounter some of the worst drivers on the roads around Stoke. I want to get today over with, because I’m spending a long weekend in Tenbury Wells with my writer friends.
The director’s car is parked outside the office.
“Oh no.” I say out loud, despite being the only person in the car. I got that email about the state of my desk yesterday, so I imagine I’m going to be chewed out over that. I’ll make that today’s priority.
I find a space and saunter in. Even though it’s May, the office is cold and all the lights are on, as it’s positioned in way that never gets the sun. The smell of floor polish greets me, along with the director looking at me like someone else has just died.
“Andrew, I want a word with you.” The director says as I sit down.
This can’t be good. Using my full name and that fatal phrase.
“We’re terminating your contract.” He says. He’s blunt and to the point.
The clock’s ticking fills the room for almost a minute.
“Oh.” I reply.
That’s right. No jumping for joy. No blubbering. Nothing. Being dead can have that effect on a person.
“Your misuse of company IT is being considered an act of gross misconduct. I’ve seen what you’ve been tweeting about. It’s not what we’re paying you for.” Again, he doesn’t raise his voice.
“Don’t worry about me. If you’ve read my tweets, you’ll know my plans. I want to go to university and do a Creative Writing degree. Accountancy might be a good job, but it’s not my career.” I say.
“That may be. But I hope you learn from this.” He says.
I extend my hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Our handshakes do not feel firm.
I return to the car and hear my own heart beating. I haven’t heard that in a while.
I’m no longer an accountant. I’m stealing back my soul. It’s time to catch up on lost sleep, get a few good books in there, and give my writing some much-needed care and attention.
It’s time for me to live again.
Andrew Roberts, 2018
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