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I am just finishing my GapYear.
Bit of an underestimation – gap 17 years. Options for change in 96’ offered many of us a way out with a nice fat wedge and an early pension before we hit the zenith years for the optimal career, 35-40. At the tender age of 36 and after 19 reckonable and one for er’ indoors, I ran out into the world never having done a days work in my life (c’mon, you know what I mean), and looking for the world that no doubt couldn’t do without me.
Apparently, it could.
Took me a year, and like many before me, my primary employment attractiveness was the ability to work in anyone’s toilet, no matter how smelly, no matter who the customers were. Saudi it was then, but it was a start. Thus it is that after 17 years working my way gradually back home across Europe and astounded yet at how far well constructed English invective and brail like power-point skills can get even the most mediocre person, I am looking at a pair of boots on my office floor. I confess to you right here – I am excited as I was last time; as excited as those who post so regularly of their acceptance into their new career. Never thought I would be, and it’s a pleasant experience.
You can never go back.
And it’s stupid to try. The point is that that invisible tube that ties each of us to the blue womb sometimes manifests itself as an idea that maybe you can do something else and it need not be about you, and perhaps only for a few years, but at least it’s got flesh to it (it’s self-delusional arse of course, but indulge me). I have been banging at this door for some time. The barriers have been many and each taken in their stride as it’s something I want to do, not a choice upon which 3 other people need to survive, so there has been no imperative to look elsewhere. This, I wanted to do. Today I ran up and down a Gym between 2 lines and answered questions from a doctor who wanted to know about the bad dreams and bad things I'd seen - all answered truthfully of course. On Friday night, hopefully, I will pick up a bible again when it isn’t a funeral. I let you know what happens next.
I am off to **** in my new boots.
Bit of an underestimation – gap 17 years. Options for change in 96’ offered many of us a way out with a nice fat wedge and an early pension before we hit the zenith years for the optimal career, 35-40. At the tender age of 36 and after 19 reckonable and one for er’ indoors, I ran out into the world never having done a days work in my life (c’mon, you know what I mean), and looking for the world that no doubt couldn’t do without me.
Apparently, it could.
Took me a year, and like many before me, my primary employment attractiveness was the ability to work in anyone’s toilet, no matter how smelly, no matter who the customers were. Saudi it was then, but it was a start. Thus it is that after 17 years working my way gradually back home across Europe and astounded yet at how far well constructed English invective and brail like power-point skills can get even the most mediocre person, I am looking at a pair of boots on my office floor. I confess to you right here – I am excited as I was last time; as excited as those who post so regularly of their acceptance into their new career. Never thought I would be, and it’s a pleasant experience.
You can never go back.
And it’s stupid to try. The point is that that invisible tube that ties each of us to the blue womb sometimes manifests itself as an idea that maybe you can do something else and it need not be about you, and perhaps only for a few years, but at least it’s got flesh to it (it’s self-delusional arse of course, but indulge me). I have been banging at this door for some time. The barriers have been many and each taken in their stride as it’s something I want to do, not a choice upon which 3 other people need to survive, so there has been no imperative to look elsewhere. This, I wanted to do. Today I ran up and down a Gym between 2 lines and answered questions from a doctor who wanted to know about the bad dreams and bad things I'd seen - all answered truthfully of course. On Friday night, hopefully, I will pick up a bible again when it isn’t a funeral. I let you know what happens next.
I am off to **** in my new boots.
DT_Xtremez_19:
