know the worst-case scenario before I tuck into my Christmas turkey a few hours from now.
The first unread email (after one asking if I’ve considered a penis extension, another selling support underwear, and the mad collie one) was sent by my boss David approximately five seconds after I left the office. No wonder he was cross with me – it wasn’t that he was grumpy about Christmas, he was waiting for all staff to leave so that he could drop his bombshell.
He’d had his finger poised over the send button as I was waving and wishing him a happy Christmas.
Twat.
Not only is he a bit of a sex predator, he is also spineless and pathetic. And rude. And a terrible manager. I am sure (given his age) he has been offered a fabulous early retirement package that will mean he can jet off to Spain and never have to face any of us again. Our village is quite small, he would have to face up to all the mutterings and turned backs, the funny looks and rotten eggs. He might well be the headline in the free local newspaper, and he won’t want to hang about for that.
I take a deep breath, clutch Stanley to my pyjama clad breast, and click on the email.
It is very brief; he regretfully wishes to inform us that in the New Year the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian will cease trading as an individual entity. He has accepted a retirement package and is moving to Kent (not Spain) and will miss our camaraderie (I won’t miss his). A caretaker boss has been appointed and will oversee the operation for the next three months, after which we will have an opportunity to apply for a job within the new organisation. The office will be unavailable from 24 December as the lease has come to an end, all belongings will be packed and sent to a new temporary location for the New Year. Full details attached blah, blah, blah.
Oh my God! You have got to be kidding me? Not only have I lost my job, somebody will be rummaging through my drawers! Have I left anything incriminating on my desk, or anything I’ll miss? There were definitely spare tights, spare knickers, a packet of festive Pringles, a collection of pens that clients have given me. Who has been touching them? Has David himself packed the boxes (eurgh – I do not want my undies back!)?
Good luck team! Have a great Christmas.
How can he expect us to have a good Christmas now?
There is a very long forwarded message from somebody called James Masters who wants to welcome us to publishing house HQ. There are a lot of words that concern me, like merger, consolidation, and acquisition which I think are best left until the morning and a clear head. I am more than a trifle concerned about the bit buried between the welcome and the Christmas wishes that mentions ‘slimming down’ and the need for some roles to go during the reorganisation (isn’t it a shame it’s not so easy for a person? A company can just chisel off and bin the bits it doesn’t want. I don’t want to be binned, but some parts of my bottom may benefit from this approach as I am rather pear-shaped). The words ‘voluntary redundancy’ and ‘flexible attitude towards suitable positions’ have also set my pulse pounding – should I take a redundancy offer and seek out a better job, or risk ‘flexibility’ meaning I could end up with the promotion I deserve?
There are also lots of attachments, including one ominously titled ‘Application Form’. I think it’s time to move on and look at my other messages, I am not in a fit state for attachments.
I also have an email from Eva, who sits across the desk from me. She excels at passive/aggressive and manages to reassure me that there will be a place in the new organisation for such a young dynamic person as myself, whilst making it clear that if I really was dynamic, I’d be working somewhere else already. Brian (desk in the corner) chips in with an invite for drinks between Boxing Day and New Year’s Day – for us to discuss strategy and possible legal action (think he’s jumping the gun a bit there), and there is a rather formal email hoping I got home safely, wishing me well and offering his services from somebody called Oz, which confuses me. Am I being headhunted? Should I move down under? Is he a stalker? Then after blinking a couple of times I realise it is from O. Z. Cartwright. Ollie.
It is rather nice of him to get in touch, but I’m not quite sure how he can help.
And why isn’t he busy bonking his girlfriend? Maybe she passed out before he had chance, unless sex is the one thing he’s not good at and it only lasted thirty seconds. Which would be tragic but explain the rapid turnover rate.
Bugger, I have to stop thinking about Ollie and sex. But what the frig am I going to do now?
Apart from wondering what the ‘Z’ stands for? I never knew Ollie had a middle name, if he ever comes to another Christmas party, I must remember to ask what it is.
I can’t help myself, I can’t wait until next year! I fire off an email thanking him for his good wishes and asking if his middle name is Zebedee or Ziggy. Either would be quite funny.
I decide it is time to close my laptop and go to sleep. My last thought as I pull my duvet up to my chin, is that I’m bloody glad I didn’t suck up to David this morning and beg for a better job before he dropped the bombshell.
5 a.m., Christmas Day, can’t sleep
Reasons this newspaper merger is a disaster:
1 The new office is miles away from the old office, and therefore my flat
2 My savings are practically non-existent and will run out soon so if they don’t take me on, I am screwed
3 Winter has to be the worst time of the year to find a new job if I fail to keep my job (or apply for voluntary redundancy)
4 I am rubbish at filling in application forms and interviews. (I tend to start to answer a question, veer off course and forget what it was. I also get panic attacks, sweaty palms and hiccups when under pressure.)
Reasons this merger could be a triumph (always be positive):
1 I could get a pay rise
2 I could get a new, better role
3 I no longer have to work with letchy David, though pass-agg-Eva and Brian-the-pessimist might also apply for their jobs back
4 This could be a new start, a start I choose rather than one that has happened by accident. And there will be more openings.
Issues – the triumph bit is littered with ‘could’s; I could quite easily end up with no job at all, or one even worse than the one I had up until yesterday.
I put my mobile down and curl up under the duvet again. The flat is quiet, Frankie will be with Tarquin, in some luxury hotel, celebrating in style.
‘We’ll be doing that next year.’ I tell Stanley, who is curled up against my feet. He wags his tail lazily, to show he’s listening. ‘Well, you’ll have your furever home, in some big house with a massive garden. I’m not quite sure what I’ll have.’
I lie back and close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about my job. Or lack of it. So I pick my phone up again.
There is a new email from Ollie: ‘Sorry to disappoint, nothing as amusing as Ziggy – it’s Zane. Rgds Ollie.’
I wonder if he always writes such formal emails?
‘Not
