Wednesday, 29 May 2013


I ask you. A man with an avowed intention to give it all up and go and live on a commune somewhere, and then he only goes and gets himself an interview for some fancy arsed corporate job. “I hate the City!” he wails, “I need to get out!” and then off he promptly trots at the beck and call of the first besuited headhunter that happens to walk past.

I mean. Really.

I did ask myself what on earth I was doing and waggled the fickle finger of frustration, but then I reasoned to myself thus: it never hurts to talk to people, it’s only meant to be a short term thing anyway (three years or so), we can't just stop paying for stuff, and, well, yes it is quite an exciting role, and a wonderful opportunity, and, oh, well, they asked me. And of course having now been for the interview I’m fairly certain that they’re not actually going to ask me to do the job. In the spirit of d├ętente I accepted that explanation and went for a drink.

Maybe it’s fear. Terror of the unknown. Scared that maybe the grass won’t be greener and I’m better off staying where I am, even if where I am happens to be stood ankle deep in mud and slowly sinking further. It has a name, you know, this hesitancy of mine. It’s a medical condition: Betterthedevilyouknowitis. From the Latin for ‘too lazy to act’. Disillusionment breeds sloth. Or is it sloth breeds misery? No fair, no foul? No jam, no bread, or something.

What a depressing day. Here, have some French ninja cats while I go and make myself a cup of tea and stare out of the window wistfully for a bit.