It’s not a
nice word is it? Redundant. Unnecessary. Superfluous. Disused. Outmoded.
Unwanted.
All very
cheerful terms, to describe a very cheerful thing.
I’ve been
made redundant once before. In 2010, a couple of years after the banks all
started imploding and collapsing in on themselves like dying stars, the
resultant economic black hole had expanded from its beginnings in the City of
London and reached such crucial financial outposts as Bristol.
Actual black
holes are reputed to suck in everything around them. Nothing can escape. Even
that speediest of speedy things, light, isn’t speedy enough to escape the
clutches of the black hole. Its fiscal equivalent feeds on jobs. Thousands and
thousands of jobs. By the time my job was “reviewed” and, ultimately, “rationalised”,
the job losses at my company alone came to around 20,000.
I didn’t
fear redundancy in 2010. I embraced it. Redundancy knocked on my door and I
welcomed it in, made it a hot cup of tea and told it I would happily be made
redundant. Because I was young. Because I was (in marital terms) single. Because
nobody depended on the money I was paid. Because of course I would get another
job, how hard could it be?
People who
had worked at the company for decades were concerned. Their CVs had last been
updated when MS DOS was but a twinkle in the pre-pubescent mind of Bill Gates.
Some had probably been written on papyrus.
But I was
convinced I’d be fine.
And I was,
more or less, correct. I was unemployed for about two months.
Now, in
2013, the job I got after I was made redundant the first time is* making me
redundant. Sorry, it’s making my ROLE redundant. A distinction I should imagine
will keep my spirits resolutely afloat when I drag my arse into the Job Centre
for the first time. At least I only have to go once every fortnight…
 |
| I'll have a new one of these soon. Mine won't be courtesy of The Telegraph though, like this photo is. |
Anyway, yes,
today I was formally entered into the consultation period which it is “more
than likely” will lead to my exit from the company in somewhere between three
and eight weeks’ time.
How do I
feel?
Dunno.
Alright.
Then not alright. Confident. Then scared. Sure of my abilities. Doubtful. It
changes by the hour, by the minute, by the second. Changes when I look at job
websites overflowing with “opportunities” which barely warrant the name.
Changes when I think about the array of fixed costs I can do nothing to reduce,
which zip from my bank account like electronic ghosts. Changes when I hold my
baby boy and wonder whether, soon, he’ll be seeing a lot more of me than he
currently does. Changes when I think about that black hole, which still no-one
has managed to sow up and stop.
I’m trying
to think of it in positive terms: a new beginning, a chance to do something I’ve
always wanted (what have I always wanted to do? Nothing, I don’t think).
But it’s not
always easy to be positive about something so overwhelmingly negative.
Pretty soon
I’ll be jobless, and the best thing about it is going to be keeping my curtains
closed all day and tweeting pictures of them to George Osborne.
*Almost certainly,
although strictly it isn’t set in stone just yet.
