Only it’s not tomorrow. After nearly 4 years at INoGITCH I’m within 7.5 hours of the finishing line – back to the grindstone (ahem) on Thursday after the Gala Dinner and the monster, RSI-inducing signing session have worked their respective woes upon my liver, waistline and wrist tendons. I even started clearing out my desk today, or rather the dirty big cabinet thing that sits beside my desk, shielding me from the vulgar gaze of the Document Management team - they do like a good squinty-peer. God knows how I’ve managed to collect so much paper-based shite in only 4 years. Folders and folders and folders of the stuff. I swear there was a whole bloody forest’s worth of paper in my 6-foot-tall Document Management Screen. Most of which is now on its way to the great recycling centre in the sky.
I’ve packed up half my stuff and taken it home already, just in case someone wants to do one of those ‘let’s all go to the pub to celebrate getting shot of the old beardie-wierdie’ things. You never know. Perhaps it’ll be a couple of weeks before anyone notices I’ve gone, and then the fighting for my throne-like chair will begin. The thing is huge: like a cross between a standard typist's swivel chair and the ‘big seat’ on the Star Ship Enterprise, only with a blue carpet-like finish. I’ve already had people past to lay claim to it - and a pile of other things on my desk - festooning the whole area with orange Post-it notes. Thieving bastards. Well, technically I suppose it’s not thieving (except for the stuff that was actually mine in the first bloody place), it’s more like proto-thieving. Anyway, let’s just say that the vultures have already started circling, looking to pick clean the corpse of my cubicle and suck the marrow from its bones.
Nice to know you’ll be missed, isn’t it?