Redundant

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.

Door

Yesterday, I made my son cry.

My beautiful, perfect, delicate little boy. I scared him, and I made him cry.

“So what?” you may be thinking. “Big deal? Kids cry all the time.”

Yes. They do. My son is no exception to this rule. He cries when I try to clean his face after a meal. He cries when I put him down for a nap. He cries when I get him up from a nap. He cries when I stop him chewing on the business end of a can of athletes foot spray (how dare I?) He cries for seemingly no reason at all.

He is very good at crying when he hurts himself. His mouth goes from its usual wide crescent smile into a downturned trapezium as he emits a primal sound which leaves no doubt as to its meaning: “that thing I just did really, REALLY hurt”.

It was in the process of trying to prevent one of those cries that I managed to make him cry myself. My vicarious fear for him causing himself pain transferred into real fear for him.

I feel lucky, and fortunate, to be able to say that in Cam’s year and a bit on Earth I’ve rarely had to shout at him. Actually, I’ve never HAD to shout at him. I’ve chosen to a couple of times. The times when the dark cloud of frustration comes over me and I wish with all my heart that he would stop doing whatever it is he’s doing. Just for a moment. Please. Stop winding me up.

But those occasions are few. And mercifully so. How easy it is for me to forget that my boy is tiny, and I am large? That he can be loud, but that I can be so much louder? That his actions may frustrate and irritate me, but that mine may terrify him?

Whoever designed folding doors clearly did not have children. Or hated children. Tiny gaps between wooden panels are seemingly irresistible to tiny fingers which are exploring the world for the first time. Cam has recently discovered the tiny gap, which can be peered through for “peepo” purposes. Soon, the peering gives way to pushing a tiny index finger through. At the same time, a barely perceptible shift in his position means the door begins to close.

The tiny gap gets tinier.

The finger remains.

Tinier.

The finger remains.

Tinier still.

I move my foot into the path of the closing door, stopping the immediate danger. But I am trapped. Sat on the opposite side of the door to him and unable to move to his side without removing my foot and  allowing the door to close completely.

I push his finger from the gap.

He immediately replaces it.

I push it away again.

He laughs. It’s a game now.

I wish he could talk. Wish he could understand EVERYTHING I say to him, not just “what noise does a pig make?” He can’t though.

He is in a giggling, ecstatic state. He bounces in excitement. This game is fun!

All I can think of is a tiny, crushed index finger and a frantic drive to hospital. This game is not fun.
I shout, because it is the only weapon I have left: “Cameron! No! DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGER IN THE GAP!”

The laughing stops. The finger remains. The smile is uncertain.

“CAMERON, NO!”

The finger is withdrawn. The bottom lip curls and trembles. The eyes well up. The noise begins its journey from his vocal cords to the atmosphere. His eyes question me: “who are you?”

I leap up and remove him from the vicinity of the door. The bastard, bastard door. I hold him tight and stroke his hair. I whisper comfort into his ear. Tell him I love him. Tell him I am sorry. Tell him I never want to scare him.

Ten minutes later we are playing happily together again. I hope he has forgotten all about it. That I am back to being the person who hugs him, tickles him, reads him bedtime stories in the softest tones I can muster. I hope that he is not afraid of me.

I consider smashing the door from its hinges.

I hope I never make my son cry again.

Wake Up

Kobe Bryant, American basketball superstar, is sat across the table from me. Idly sipping his drink and holding a dog eared cardboard folder in one hand. The folder contains details of his financial situation which, for some reason, I am trying to get him to tell me about. Perhaps I want to feel envious. He starts speaking, and the thick Jamaican accent gives my subconscious the tip off it needed to realise I’m dreaming.

In the background, a coffee machine is beginning to make that rushing, roaring sound that means someone is about to get their caffeine hit. Only it doesn’t tail off. It gets louder, and louder, and louder, until it’s drowning out everything else. The sound fills my ears and starts to make me feel uncomfortable.

I’m no longer paying any attention to Jamaican Kobe Bryant. Which is very rude of me, even if he is only a figment of my imagination.

The noise keeps on getting louder, and then I’m awake. The noise continues. It’s outside the house. The world is ending or something. My brain isn’t fully engaged, so rational thought isn’t on the agenda just yet. I stumble to the window and throw open the curtains, letting in the light of a beautiful summer morning, completely forgetting I am wearing nothing but my pants. The street is full of people looking up. Higher than my window, thankfully.

Then, I experience a real life, very Bristolian version of the opening scene of Star Wars. Instead of an Imperial Cruiser passing overhead is a hot air balloon, basket full of people dangling perilously beneath it, surveying the world below them, having a bloody good time by the looks of it.

Balloon. As seen from my bedroom window this morning.

 I found the whole thing very exciting. A massive balloon (actually, there were five or six) flew directly over my house and woke me up and I was excited. It was a treat. It was a great start to the day. I rushed to take a picture and discovered that my dexterity when half asleep has significant room for improvement. I hung around a little longer at home in the hope that some more were on their way. It set me up for the day in a way that an alarm clock could never hope to match.

It was particularly welcome because I’ve not been feeling my usual bright and breezy self recently. It was just a small thing but it reminded me of how much a small thing can have a big impact on how you feel. It allowed me to abandon my usual cynicism and misanthropy for a moment and to feel good about what wonderful things the future may hold for Cam.

While the feeling lasted my mind went on a joyous randonnée through the myriad of experiences I hope that Cam, Mrs L and I will share. I pictured the wonder I hope to see on his face the first time he sees something which really captures his imagination. We’re a little way from there yet; it is only in the past few days he has started to reach out for his Freddy Firefly.

Today’s wake up was a rare good one. I’ll be holding onto the memory of it for as long as I can.

I hope you’re having a good day, and that your wake up call this morning was a good one. Thanks for reading.

Disappointment

Did you read my post a while back about being shortlisted for an interview? Well, as some of you know (probably all too well, seeing as I chatted about it on Twitter quite a bit) I didn’t get the job.

My initial reaction was: Bah-fuckery-tits-and-tossy-bollocks. Arse.

So, I’m disappointed.

It was a job which I really wanted. A job I think I would have been really good at. A job which would have motivated me to push myself and do well.

But I didn’t get it.

It’s a right old fucker. You see, I’ve mentioned before the trouble I have being a real person. When I read @ageingmatron’s post the other day about procrastination it struck a chord with me. That’s the sort of person I am. Why put off ‘til tomorrow what you can put off ‘til even later?

But this time I acted like a real person. I researched the role carefully. I honed my application form so that it was a razor sharp tool for precision interview snagging. I read relevant internal strategy documents and memorised key points to be able to regurgitate in response to the interview panel. I produced a presentation showcasing my talents, abilities and vision for the role. I took deep breaths and delivered coherent and well argued responses to each of the questions I was asked. I bestowed each member of the panel with just the right amount of attention and eye contact. I wore my best shirt, my shiniest shoes, my sharpest (alright, only) suit and cufflinks. I was a blend of charm, levity and AWESOME which, I thought, it would be hard for any other candidate to match.

I even TIDIED MY BEARD.

It's not pubes. It's my face.

Perhaps I ought to have shaved the bastard thing off.

No.

The feedback from the panel when they informed me of my failure did not cite my facial hair as a limiting factor. This is good because, without the pay rise the new position would have provided, I remain unable to stomach the frankly outrageous cost of Gilette Mach 3 blades. I may be taking shears to my face before any future interviews.

What they actually said was “your interview was fantastic, we really couldn’t find fault with it. We had to think very carefully about whether to offer the job to you or [name of victor]” (he’s not actually called Victor).

So I don’t feel angry. Usually there’s a lingering air of having shot myself in the foot with these things. My inability to focus and act like a grown up leading to a half-arsed application or interview performance has been my downfall in the past.

Instead, I have that weak, pitiful, something and nothing feeling of disappointment. Sloshing around in the brainspace. Making me feel a little bit melancholy. A little bit grumpy. A smidge miffed. Nothing stronger. Nothing that made me want to rant and rage for more than a few minutes.

Oh well. Moving on. I had a few ciders last night and I’ll mention the disappointment no more.

What disappointments have you endured in recent times, and how do you like to deal with them?

Normal

Our little boy is just over ten weeks old now, so we thought it was about time we started trying to do some normal things again.

Things you do before having a baby (no, not that thing). Things like going to the pub, or playing a bit of sport. Or eating a meal at the same time as your wife. Or sleeping.

Last night, we did the first of those things. We left The Creature with one set of grandparents and we went to the pub.

Because all our friends have forgotten we exist/what we look like we started organising the trip to the pub forty-eight hours in advance. I sent everyone a picture message of mine and Mrs L's faces, so they'd know who they were meeting, I specified the time and the place and made it abundantly clear that there was every possibility we wouldn't be going at all actually, if The Creature decided to play up.

Still they agreed to come. We're like celebrities, or a passing comet, people can't resist the opportunity to catch a glimpse. That or they just fancied going to the pub and we were giving them a convenient excuse.

Cam was playing the "of course I'm not going to sleep. I know I usually am at this time but I can sense something's different. There's a disturbance in the force and I'm suddenly alert, like Yoda with a whiff of Sith in his nostrils" game. When his handlers for the evening arrived he was in his Moses basket, but far from sleeping.

Well, you know what, we went anyway. I practically had to physically remove Mrs L from the house, but with a little (lot) of helpful reassurance that Cam would, in fact, survive a few hours without us, we left.

We did a quiz. We came second. But that wasn't really the point. It was an evening where we could feel a little bit of what used to be normal to us. Adult company. Stupid jokes and sharing anecdotes. No fear that a tiny person may soon be yelling at us or needing food or a new nappy. Mrs L got a bit drunk on one glass of wine (this is not new, she's a proper lightweight) and I had a few bottles of cider. We both had a nice time. A really nice time.

Wobbly legs juice. Hic.

It hasn't been the easiest of transitions for us. Neither of us had truly realised how much we valued our independence and freedom until Cam came along and essentially robbed us of it. For Mrs L especially, there's been a feeling of captivity, of losing who she is and only being recognisable as a mum. Yesterday, for a few hours, we both managed to shift our focus from Cam and back on to ourselves.

I didn't even feel my usual, trademark, guilt. I knew he'd be fine and he was. In fact, he had a better night than he has in a while and for the majority of today he's been cheerful and smiley.

Perhaps we should go to the pub more often.

The Creature is our "normal" now, but it was amazing to take a trip to a pre-child world, even if it was only for a while, and a complete optical illusion.