How many months, years, have I been moaning about this place?

January 31st 2007 will be a landmark day.  The end of my tenure here... no, let me rephrase that: Not an ending, a beginning.  The beginning of... who knows what, but a beginning, most certainly.

And I'm not the only one, either.

There's going to be an undercurrent of emotion behind my smiles today.  Again, not for the ending, so much as for the fact of the occasion.  No matter what happens, my life changes. Here, now, today. 

Forever.

It is now, as it always was of course, but now more than ever, entirely up to me what I do with my life.  Fate's given me a handy kick up the arse, just to remind me.

Feeling quite upbeat today (probably due to the lack of excessive drunkenness last night, I shouldn't wonder), but with a new dilemma before me.

Talking to Ginger, and in my own head, I'd pretty much made up my mind that I couldn't afford training, and that my 27 years of amateur experince would have to be sufficient.  The more I research, however, the more I find that casting organisations, and places like Spotlight, put rather more emphasis on accredited training than I'd hoped.

There are courses that are more tailored towards mature students, but can I afford them?

Big thinking needed.

Lovely Tarek, at the coffee booth at Marylebone.  After months of having my breakfast ready for me as soon as he spotted me, today, for the first time, he offered to warm my croissant for me.  Quite why he should choose to do so now, I've no idea.  It's a fairly mundane kind of thing, but I was sort of touched.  I've never seen anybody else get their breakfast heated up - in fact I had no idea they even had a microwave in the booth.  He's been such a breath of fresh air in my mornings over the last six months, I think I really should tell him that it's my last few days.  Seems vaguely silly - he's "only a coffee-booth employee", and I'm "only a customer" - but his ready smile and friendliness have been invaluable some mornings, and he's clearly a thoroughly nice guy.

And by way of balance...

There's one particular bus driver, who always drives the number 30 that arrives in Loudwater at 14:08 (not that he's ever on time - can easily be 15 minutes either way).  The first time I presented my Travelcard to him, he was most dismissive of it - "but that's a train ticket", "yeah, but we're not getting any money, are we?" (the latter after I pointed out that there was an agreement between Arriva and Network Rail to accept Travelcards in the Wycombe area).  He allowed me on his bus, grudgingly, but ever since has greeted me with probably the most contemtuous glance I've ever seen - as though I were personally stealing from him by daring to travel with my obscene piece of ticketery.  What's more, when he arrives at the bus stop, he accelerates first, then screeches to a halt, several feet from the kerb, and usually several yards beyond the bus stop.  I'm sure if there was abig puddle there, he'd make sure he drove through it.  Everybody else he greets with a ready smile.  I'm sure he won't miss me, and I'm sure I won't miss him.

One week to go.  This time next Tuesday, I'll be packing my things into a stout cardboard box, and getting ready to depart.  This time next Wednesday, I'll be waking up to my first day of freedom.

Odd to think that this isn't really my job any more.  My colleagues are already doing a lot of my work (and with more effort than I have for many a year, if I'm honest!).  Proving surprisingly difficult not to be defensive about it.  I've been out of the office for a couple of days - returning to my desk this morning, I found that somebody had been using my computer.  Tried hard not to feel indignation...

I. Must. Not. Care.

After several years of slowly declining conscientiousness, it's an amusing irony to find myself feeling protective about the job now!

I'm terrified.

Not, as you might think, of the impending redundancy, or of thus being out of work; nor of the idea of throwing myself on the mercies of agents, casting directors, other actors, etc.

It's hard to say exactly what I'm so scared of.

But I'm absolutely bricking it.  The feeling of fear and impending something, without an actual something to hang it on.  And it's growing. 

At the bottom of Amersham Hill is Stuart Newmans - an estate agent.  As I walk past, early in the morning, he's always there, every day.  Tall, rugged, one might say - with more than a touch of the Tommy Cooper about him. A big man, but with that curious daintyness that some tall men acquire.  Maybe he is Stuart Newmans (do independent estate agents still exist?) - certainly he's at the very least the manager, so dedicated does he seem to be to his business.  As I pass, he's either working at his computer, arranging the window displays, tidying brochures, or any one of the myriad of other tasks involved in the running of an office (I've never seen an office junior in there).  He conveys an impression of competence, of calm efficiency (it being an estate agency, this impression may be false, of course).

But it's his face that's always caught my eye.  He has, without doubt, the saddest face I have ever seen.  He fixes his computer screen with a gaze of such despair, such desolation, that I have to look away.  It seems to me to be the face of someone whom life has repeatedly knocked, again and again; every small defeat stealing away a little of his joy, until all he has left is this simple focus on the professionalism of his job - as though that, in itself, had become an escape for him, a distraction from the horde of disappointments and sorrows that crowd outside.  There in the neat, ordered, melamine-clad whiteness of his work, surrounded by the certainties of his trade, driven by the daily routine, always immaculate, in his crisp shirt and smart-if-not-actually-fashionable tie, life retains some shape for him, some purpose, that it lacks when he closes the door behind him, late at night, and heads for home.

I extrapolate wildly of course.  He may be blissfully happy.

The first tentative but concrete steps taken.

I went to visit my old friend Ginger last night, who I've known through the Artisans for a long time - his wife Joan, and both his daughters, Lisa & Suzi, have all been members at various times, Joan only this week retiring from our committee after many years.  He himself directed us in Entertaining Mr. Sloane in 2005.

The idea was to pick his brains and borrow from his lifetime's experience of acting.  I'd hoped to glean a few useful bits of information as to where to start, who to approach, etc., but bless him, I couldn't have hoped for a more helpful mentor.  Everything from how to get the best from my Spotlight photo, to how to prepare for auditions.

I was fairly sure that this was what I wanted to do before, but I'm even more so now.  Thank you John, it's much appreciated.

The Artisans AGM last night.  An eventful, but unproductive evening.

Gave Joan a lift, looking frankly radiant - so nice to see her so well after her stroke.  She's stepped down as secretary, unsurprisingly, so the group gave her warm thanks, and decided to honour her by creating a new class of membership, that of "Honorary Life Member", she to be the first recipient thereof, to reflect the group's respect and love for her.  Nice to be able to repay her kindness to me, for the lovely things she said for my Jo Stoneham Award a year and a half ago.

Then we got on to the year's programme, and I dropped my little bombshell.  I'd originally said, before the redundancy was certain, that I'd direct the summer show.  Now, of course, because I'm going to be trying to make a go of professional acting, I can't really commit to anything... just in case.  This didn't go down awfully well.  I probably came across as pompous and conceited - especially since there's every chance that I'll get no work at all.  Think I pissed Nicola off royally - she didn't even say goodbye.  But then, I had hoped to have a chat with her about it before the meeting, but she was very late, so I couldn't.  I feel rather shitty though, for not having warned her before.

For the first time in some while, I had nothing alcoholic to drink last night, and went to bed because it seemed like a reasonable time, rather than because I was dead on my feet.

Maybe it was the mushroom risotto.

I dreamt a succession of the most intensely vivid dreams, such as I haven't for a very long time.

I was bankrupt (almost true!) and working for a bankrupt firm.  I seemed to be personally responsible for financing it, even though I had no money myself.

Later, I was running as fast as I could towards a sunlit grove of trees, where, for some reason, I was looking forward to dancing naked (sorry for that image).  The moment I arrived, it clouded over.

There were at least two more scenarios that have now escaped me.

And I woke to find I hadn't won the lottery.  Going to be a long three weeks (see dream 1, above)

Man has been to the moon.
He can travel through the air - many times faster than sound, if necessary.
He can make a razor with as many blades as he has digits on each hand.
He can make computers so powerful that they can simulate reality.

But he still cannot make a peel-off film on a pack of food that actually peels cleanly.

This mood-swinging is starting to really get on my nerves.

The slightest thing, the very slightest, and there's this huge emotional response, out of all proportion to the stimulus - which rarely warrants any real emotion at all.

The really peculiar thing is that, while my right brain is flapping all over the place, waving onions under my eyes and having a fun time tweaking all my emotions, my left brain is fighting like mad to retain composure, and talking to people with the best impression it can manage of a calm, relaxed and urbane human being, and being at pains to put the other person at their ease.  Failing, often, but trying, nonetheless.

And each half is aware of each other, across the divide. Watching, but going their own way.

Right: "FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckbollockswhydidIaskthatOhGodit'sallgonewrongandI've fuckedupagaincrycrycrycrycrycrycrycurlupanddieunderthedeskmummymummymummymummy"

Left: "Yes, that's fine, don't worry"

Bloody exhausting.  Swans' legs under the water, paddling away like fury, all serenity above.

I know this is hardly news to most people - we all do it.  Haven't had it quite this bad for a long time though.  When it takes all my physical strength not to shake like a leaf while talking politely to a work colleague, that's a worry.

Real ones, rather than metaphorical.  In less than a month, I'll probably never clap eyes on these folk again, in spite of having shared bits of my early mornings with them for the last half year.  Seems worth recording them, at least a little.  This is not an exhaustive list, naturally!

1. Romford to Liverpool Street

Three-quarters of the passengers on the 4.53 are postal workers, on their way to Farringdon, where there's a big sorting office.  Let us, therefore, begin with:

The Couple

Two male posties (well, maybe just work in the sorting office, hard to know). Always sit together, always walk together.  Stand just a little closer together than mere friends tend to.  Look good together, in fact.  I really do hope they are a couple, they seem to fit.

James Bolam

Very reminiscent, in looks, of the aforesaid actor.  A lined face, showing many past cares, but a look that suggests great laughter in the face of adversity.

Incredible Talking Man and 'Friends'

He talks. That is his nature.  His usual ploy is, on arrival in the carriage, to pounce upon one of his colleagues (postal workers again), sit down next to or opposite them, and begin to talk.  They may be asleep, or be reading a paper or book; it matters not.  If they don't respond, he'll repeat the phrase, with a "hmm?" or a "huh?" thrown in, in an attempt to elicit some reaction.  If they look away, he'll even go so far as to manouevre himself into their eyeline.

Quiet Carriage Man

"THE THING I LIKE ABOUT EARLY TRAINS", he confides to his friend, and thus the entire carriage, "IS HOW LOVELY AND QUIET THEY ARE".

Days like today scare me.  Or rather, the prospect of days yet to come, when I've left my job, and am thrown entirely on my own resources and my own company, and when I feel as lost and lonely as I do today.  Above all, what this neurosis craves is closeness and affection - I fill the gap left by their lack, with as much online conversation with friends as is possible.  Inevitably, and not unreasonably, my friends are not always able, willing, or in the appropriate mood themselves, to indulge me in this.  All that keeps me together then, is the mundanity of sitting in an office surrounded by other drudges.

I'm terrified of where this sort of mood may take me when I'm alone on a regular basis. 

I'm actually planning to immerse myself in solitude, the thing that I love and I fear above all things.  Can I really think this is a good thing?

While wandering through the little shop where I buy my lunchtime sandwich, I found myself in the queue for the till behind a little old lady.  "Oh go in front of me", she said, "I've got all this lot, and two lotteryb tickets to do".  Bless her, so with many a smile and many an "are you sure?", I did.  How sweet.

As I reached the door on my way out, a boy, perhaps 13 or 14, came in through it.  He held the door open for me.

Maybe there is hope after all.

Impossibly sad this morning.  For reasons far too foolish to explain.

I was all poised to wallow in self-pity.

Then a small event occurred which really shouldn't, by rights, have boosted me as much as it did, but which took me from the blackest pit to a point of complete equanimity with the world.

It wasn't as if I didn't have anything to look forward to tomorrow already - on the contrary, I did, and I knew I would enjoy it.  But now I had two things to look forward to, and somehow that small difference was enough to completely overbalance the seesaw the other way, and herald a lovely evening.  Probably not a good sign, that I'm so easily mood-swung, but I'm not about to complain just at the moment...

...seems to be a crying night.

Not a particularly sad night, you understand, but a night when emotion seems intent on bubbling to the surface.

It began with More 4's Peter and the Wolf - I knew that the music would begin the moment Peter managed to get out of the house, much like the colour suddenly appears when Dorothy lands in Oz, and yet, when it did, I was convulsed in great, wet, sobs of joy.  The whole thing was so utterly beautiful from start to finish, and somehow that seemed more than enough excuse to cry my eyes out.

Then there was an advert, which happened to use Sigur Rós's Hoppipolla... and I was off again...

I fear there may be more.  In fact, I rather hope there is.  Tears are the bathwater of the soul.

Maybe it's just old age.

There was a time when a big New Year's Eve party really appealed to me, when getting very drunk and leaping about with many like-minded people seemed the obvious and inevitable way of seeing in the next 365 days.

I have opportunites to attend such occasions this year:  I'm invited to a party in west London, and a good friend wondered if I fancied coming along to a club with him, or perhaps meet up to watch the London fireworks.

The last of these seems the most attractive, but I confess that what I yearn for is dinner, wine, and good conversation.  The number of people with whom this might occur is fairly small, and they're (so far as I know) all already committed for the evening.

There's a chance that I'll do what I've done in previous years, and have a quiet night in, in my own company.  Not such a bad thing, and potentially good for the soul.  Makes me almost feel a bit guilty though, as if I'd be spurning the company of those who've invited me out... very far from the truth, it's just that I really don't know if I can face it.

Over the years, I've cooked Christmas Dinner in a lot of different kitchens, for a lot of different people.  It's a thing I enjoy a great deal - I love cooking for others in any circumstances, but doing it in an unfamiliar kitchen is an extra adventure.

No matter how many reassurances, though, it's hard to escape the feeling of being an invader.  Just because I've been invited to cook in somebody else's culinary domain, doesn't prevent my feeling that it's somehow an intrusion.  All very peculiar.

This year's gastronomic incursion was an entirely novel one, too - G & S have recently moved, to a brand spanking new property in Dursley.  Really nicely-built house, too - it has the feeling of quality manufacture about it.  The kitchen, of course, was virtually pristine - the stainless hob had not a mark on it, the oven smelt only of hot metal - even the microwave gleamed.  I did manage to apply a thin coating of grease to a number of spotless surfaces, but nothing that G wasn't able to remove...

It's been a generally very good festive break:  Saturday's retail therapy in excellent company, a pause for breath on Christmas Eve, then gluttony, drunkenness, charming gifts, heart-warming text messages and good company.  What more could one require?

It warms my heart to know that I live in a world where things such as this can exist...

Brief conversation with the stunning young man behind me in the coffee queue at Marylebone.  He asked me in the loveliest, gentlest, sexiest voice, if there was anywhere on the station where he could get warm.  I should have answered, "in my arms", but instead I smiled foolishly and said that the only warm place was probably in a train.  He smiled straight at me, and complained that his train didn't leave until ten-to, a good 40 minutes away.  I wonder if he travels that way regularly?

The journey to Wycombe made short and joyous by a moving and delightful short story by the foremost literary genius of the 21st century.  Next time I must bring tissues.

A squirrel leaps exuberantly from spindly, leafless tree to spindly leafless tree, the thin branches bending and bouncing in great extravagant arcs in the golden winter sun.

The imminent, scary prospect of freedom. An ending, so that there may be a beginning.

What I need can never be,
Not ever, in this life.
Not you,
Nor you,
Nor you,
Nor you,
Nor you, nor you, indeed.
Not you, not you,
Not even you,
Not ever, in this life.

It occurs to me that I've never really faced, not really faced, the likelihood that I'm going to remain a single and lonely person for the rest of my life, as I have been for the 46 years I've so far seen.

I can think of no reason why the current sitution should change.

Do I resign myself to it?

Or do I resign myself to the subtly different prospect of spending the remaining decades falling in love with people who can't return my feelings, as I have the last four decades?

Now that most of the financial information's been presented to us, about the impending redundancies, and now that the offer is substantially more generous, I am presented with a choice:

I can take an immediate (or nearly so) redundancy - a few weeks of handing over my job, a very handy chunk of cash, and (hopefully) pay in lieu of the remainder of my notice - which would also be a handy (though rather smaller) sum.

or

I can choose to "transition" - taking up to six months to hand over my work, and thereby doing a more thorough job of it.  At the end of that time, a bonus.  Small, but again, handy.  There might, again, be pay-in-lieu, and I should have accrued another year's service, so a little more redundancy pay would be added.

How eager am I to cut and run?

Does the lure of extra dosh exceed the powerful desire to get the hell out of here?

If I go as soon as may be, I'd have to start looking at the possibility of trying out the acting career I've been daydreaming about, and quite quickly.  If I do that, where does that leave the Artisans?  I have, after all, just said that I'll direct next year's summer play...

If I stay for the extra six months, will the inevitable loathing for the situation be more than I can bear?

I should probably get quite drunk tonight.

I've long known it.  People are kind, but I can't really escape the inevitable conclusion that I'm actually really rather dull.

Yes, I'm fully aware that this morsel of self-pity does nothing whatever to improve that.

I'd have to say that prospects are looking up.

The redundancy settlement is due to be much more generous than we'd all feared, so that's one definite plus.  All that remains now to be settled, is the timing.  I've opted not to apply for any of the jobs in Zurich, so the future of the Build Lab (my little empirette within the company) is a bit uncertain as yet.  It currently lives on twenty or so rather aged machines in a 19" rack.  Can't see them wanting to move all that to Zurich, somehow.  Maybe the Lab will simply be discontinued - there's a vaguely similar facility already in Zurich that might be expanded to perform some of the tasks... or maybe it'll just stop.

A quick departure with Pay-In-Lieu, or a multi-month migration?  I wonder which it'll be.

Meeting this morning.  There probably won't be any firm details, but we shall see...

"We would like to apologise to customers at Romford.  Due to overrunning engineering works in the Southend area, all services from Southend are delayed"

1) "We would like to apologise".  Go on then.

2) I'm a passenger, not a customer

3) "Delayed"  Now, it's really rather silly to lie, isn't it?  They're not "delayed" at all, are they?  Look at your own information boards.  See that word in red?  What does it say?  That's right, and what does "cancelled" mean?  Does it mean the same as "delayed"?  No.

4) When there are overnight engineering works, it's very common for them to overrun.  Not good, but hardly a surprise.  So why is there no contingency?  Why no buses, no extra trains run on the part of the line (the majority, in this case) that's not suffering the overrun?

5 It's fashionable these days, not to speak of  "a train", but to say, "a service". Are you familiar with what the word "service" actually means?

Everyone else's woes, unwittingly triggering mine.
I can't not listen.
But the cost.  The cost.

In spite of the current glooms and despisings associated with my job, there's still a strange joy attached to my journey to work.

Particularly at this time of year, where everything's cold and clear, and the world smells of fallen leaves, that chance to be out walking, in the open air, with both a purpose and a destination, is a thing I look forward to at both ends of the day.

I'll miss it, when it's all over.

No more sunny smiles from Tarek in the AMT booth, as he hands over my latte and croissant.  No more settling down with my book in a comfy seat on the Chiltern Railway.  No more walking through Loudwater Village, past the laughing stream, the noise of the weir.  No more bracing climbs up the steep drive to Fennels Lodge, rewarded by the warm fug inside the front door.

No more comfy rut.

Assuming they pull their fingers out and actually decide something.

The scene at Liverpool Street Station this morning, as I crossed the concourse towards the Underground:

Half a dozen police, talking on radios.  An area cordoned off with blue and white tape. 

One of those folding screens that are put round hospital beds.  Presumably the intention was that it should mask the crime scene from public view.  Unfortunately, the fabric screen itself stands on wheeled legs 18 inches high, so there's a clear view underneath.  The presence of the screen merely draws the eye.  To the large puddle of blood.  Nothing else, but it's enough, of course.

We all walk past.  We look, we have little choice.  We keep walking. 

I can't find a shred of shock in me.  Have I grown so callous?

Had been doing quite well.  Developed a lot of coping strategies for recent emotional upsets, scar tissue seemed to be toughening nicely.

Coming in to work this morning, I could feel the pendulum swinging in the self-pity direction (it seems quite capable of that on its own), and I was proud of myself for choosing not to dwell on those things that upset me, in spite of a rather poor journey.  Arrived at the office in fairly good spirits.

And then I have a conversation which tips me straight over the edge. Here I am once again, John Nice-But-Not-Sexy.  John-Who-Wonders-What-The-Fuck-Mutual-Attraction-Feels-Like.

I guess it'll wear off.

There are (I may have said this before) few things in the world that I appreciate as much as good company.

An appreciative guest (who brings wine worthy of appreciation - yum!), who challenges and stretches my kitchen exploits, and is kind enough to compliment me on the outcome.  Who reads my cards with disarming charm.  Who leaves me their Season 7 Buffy boxset...

It's been a weekend of unusual solitude.  No bad thing, for a change.  The recent months of unaccustomed socialising, though lovely, do come at a price.  Not always been in the best place, mentally, and a weekend of enforced focusing on positive thoughts and "doing things round the house" has done me a power of good.

Wonder if it'll last?

So. 
You can't tell us what the redundancy package will be.
You can't tell us which posts will be moved to Zurich.
You can't tell us how many posts will be moved to Zurich.
You can't tell us what the relocation package would be for those people who do move.
You can't even tell us when you'll be able to tell us.

You can tell us that there will definitely be redundancies.

Well thanks a bunch.  That's real consultation.

And you think we're going to be doing much work in the next week or two, hmmm?

A casual observer might note three things:

1) It might have been better to sort out the details of what was going to happen before starting the "consultation" process.
2) The period between issuing the letter to us, thus officially starting the process, and the date when the yearly results would need to be ready in order to make the end of year deadline is... 30 days.
3) The legally required period for the consultation process to be completed is... 30 days.

Yes, I'm a cynic.

My prescience, though puny, is clearly as accurate as ever.

It's been a comofrtable rut, these last twelve and a half years.  Quite how I've survived this long I don't know, given my lack of any kind of belief in the company over the last few years, or any real effort or pride in my work.  Thought it would all have come back to bite me on the bum long since.

I'd also hoped that perhaps my house sale would finally get itself resolved (only two and a half years now!), and I'd be able to politely but firmly tell the powers-that-be where to stuff the job.

But no.

The third (and perhaps, always the most probable) path has placed itself at my feet, in the form of a UK-wide email.

"Notice of possible redundancies"

Strong probability that the UK office will be closed, some staff and facilities shipped off to either Zurich or the US, and the rest laid off.  I have this horrible suspicion they'll be trying to persuade me to take the BuildLab to Zurich.  I shall certainly refuse.  I wonder how that's seen, legally, in terms of their obligation to offer alternative employment within the company?

Interesting times ahead.

A curious (and lovely) moment of perfect balance last night.

I was completely at peace with two of my greatest friendships. 

Does that sound like a rather obvious thing?  Not to me. I know the feeling won't last - I was ever one for worry and neurosis - but for that one perfect singularity of contentment, I shall be forever grateful.

Hang in there John.  You know this is only a setback.  You know that you'll find a way to deal with these feelings, these jealousies, these horrible, heart-tearing, impossible-to-resolve desires.  They're excruciating now, yes, they rob you of almost all rational thought, yes, but they'll pass.  They'll pass.

Please God, let them pass soon.  And stay passed.

I really don't like this mood.  It's fairly rare, fortunately, but makes for a pretty miserable time when it crops up.

It's the "so, if I'm never going to find someone who loves me, what's the point of continuing" mood.

The one that, had I the courage, might lead to me heading out of the window, or somesuch.  I haven't the courage, of course, so don't worry.  Not that you did, I expect.  Yes, that's the other aspect of it - even though I know people do give a shit, this mood stops me believing it, so I'm convinced that I'm completely alone, and that nobody would care if I wasn't here.

Thing is, it seems quite probable that I'm not going to find anyone to love me - to have come this far in life, and been in love quite a number of times, and always without it being reciprocated, it seems pretty likely that there's something fundamentally wrong with whichever bit of my emotional makeup controls such things.

It's odd.  Long before I came out, I felt much the same.  When I did finally start meeting gay men, I honestly thought things would change.  But all that happened was that I met a whole lot of new and lovely men, who had a whole new set of reasons for not being interested in me.

So.  "Not Boyfriend Material", then.  For anybody, presumably.  46 years of evidence suggests so.

Window?

No, still a coward.  Bed.