You’ve got another 40 years of this shit to put up with, no matter where you work mate. I’d pursue writing as a career if I were you. Minimal human contact. You know it makes sense.
Having spent two months wallowing in self-pity and contemplating a not-too-distant future where my only source of income was selling flowers I had stolen from the cemetery at congested roundabouts in Golders Green, I decided to get myself in shape and return to the dynamic and challenging world of administration. I had signed up with a new recruitment agency where my reputation was unbeknownst to the blissfully naive consultants at London Bridge Adecco.
Having procured a temporary placement at Commonwealth College London, I came to realise that the temporary sectors survival depends on other people’s misfortune. Like ambulance chasers, unemployed temps have to pray that some poor bastard takes 3-6 months off due to depression. During bouts of unemployment I found myself wishing for some poor fucker to get cancer, a treatable form (I’m not a monster) but requiring months of painful chemotherapy and rehabilitation. I was a parasite, leeching…
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