A new job starts today. I handed my notice in yesterday and announced that I’ll be switching to part time for the next couple of weeks before finishing entirely.

“But what about your notice period?”
“I don’t have one contractually, I didn’t sign the last contract extension”
“But you can’t just finish that soon”
“I’m not, I’ll commit to completing some agreed deliverables and then I’ll finish. But bear in mind I’m losing money every day I’m not working on the new gig as they pay better”
“oh…”

Bless.

So today is on the new rate, tomorrow and Thursday the old, Friday new, etc.

The downside with this arrangement is the fucking logistical nightmare of remembering what suit and shoes I’ve left in each office before I cycle in every morning. It would be a personal disaster of the highest order to end up with a checked shirt and a striped suit combination by accident. I may have to take two ironed shirts with me each morning just to be on the safe side.

The only thing left to decide now is which of my two usual quotations to write in the “farewell, I’m off, come join me for a beer” email to my colleagues. I used the lyrics to The Littlest Hobo last time so I think we’ll wheel out Motorhead’s finest ode to touring rock bands, “We are the road crew”. And of course, the email is always signed off with the exclamation that “you’re all winners!” in the way the hippy teacher used to console the fat kids on sports day.

In the meantime overnight, my blog seems to have been hit by an attack of the “Bardon comment virus”. Which is probably a function of him sitting alone bored in an hotel room in Queen’sland rather than an interest in my pontifications.