workingfortheman.com

Sorry, due to a management reshuffle, due to a downturn of profits in your sector, and the classic "we are moving your position to the Outer Hebrides in Scotland," your position here has been eliminated.

How ever you are told about your redundancy it is not the best news you could be told. It hardly stands up there with "We are giving you a 10 percent bonus."

Do not completely despair.

You have just moved house, extended the mortgage, made plans for that conservatory and had your eye on one of those motorized grass cutters. With a bit of tuning it could be a go-cart when your much wiser half isn't looking.

Then from nowhere "SLAP!"

The place you lovingly call "the hell of lost souls" gives you the wonderful news that you are no longer required.

But you get "Gardening Leave." Two months off with pay. It should be changed to "PlayStation Leave."

Cunningly you have had your CV with twelve different agencies for the last 3 months. Smugly you accept the conditions and pack your bags.

Taking everything with you that hasn't been screwed to the desk.

Including that suspect piece of blue tack that you have sculptured into your boss for Voodoo practices.

Your colleagues react slightly differently. Your line manager has gone purple and is calling the senior manager and the HR manager incompetent twits and the only reason for staying was to make sure that he buried them.

Not too sure if this is a good idea.

Your line manager's number 2 has now joined in.

You feel no pity for either side. They have all conspired to make your life a misery. You give them the two-fingered salute, once you have reached the safety of the lift.

The first morning of your redundancy is a strange nether world. Your partner has already gone to work. So it is to the Internet you turn to for support.

Trawling through Big Boobies web sites isn't really going to find you a job.

So you try the IT Job agency sites.

Moran, Incompetent and Partners agency is first on your list.

You speak to a nineteen-year-old girl by the name of Crystal, who finds it very amusing that she hasn't even heard of your particular field of expertise. You smile through gritted teeth and carry on with the utterly inane conversation. No luck there then.

The next agency is Boffins and Geeks. Straight away you're in trouble.

When the nice man called Nigel knows more about your old job then you do, you try in vain to lie your way out of a bad situation.

You suspect Nigel knows you have not been completely honest on your CV. Nigel tells you he will be in touch when a suitable position comes up. You are reassuringly happy that "condescending Nigel" will never ring you again.

Your last hope is the Dimwit, Slick and Snaky agency. The conversation goes well.

Darren, who you find out used to sell outboard motors, is genuinely interested.

The gentleman just knows enough about your chosen profession to be dangerous. He says he is putting you forward for the vacancy. You are exactly what his client has been looking for.

You are over the moon when Darren rings you back the next day to say you have an interview.

The day of the interview goes exactly how you would expect it.

The alarm doesn't go off. You find a nasty curry stain on your best suit. The trousers still smell like your favourite wine bar.

The shirt has been sitting in the wardrobe so long it has the coat-hanger design embossed in the back of it.

You manage to crawl to the station just in time to catch the very late train.

Eventually finding the company offices with a few minutes to spare.

The reception desk is hidden behind a rain forest. A very cheerful chap gives you your visitor's pass and directs you to the lift. You suspect that the plants surrounding the security guard are not exactly legal.

Checking your appearance in the mirrored walls of the lift, you realize this has been a huge mistake.

Your suit is now crumpled, your hair looks like it has had Terradactiles nesting in it and you reek of cigarettes.

You are doomed to failure.

The next reception area is bleak. The sign above the receptionist head looks crooked.

After asking for "George what's his face" and taking a seat, you stare at the sign more closely.

Making the receptionist squirm under your gaze. You smile weakly, trying to convince her it wasn't her your staring was aimed at. Her warning glare doesn't give you any comfort.

George turns up and shakes your clammy hand.

He asks mechanically how your journey was and did you have to come far.

You want to tell him the train journey was dire, the security guard down in the lobby is smoking cannabis to stifle the boredom and the receptionist is feeling violated in some way.

You lie to George and tell him it was fine.

The best things about the interview are the chocolate biscuits. After munching two down, you realize George has already started asking you questions. Trying to answer as best you can, without spewing George with half-chewed biscuits.

All the things that you knew about your job run away, taking your tongue with them.

The sweat is now trickling down your ribs. George smiles reassuringly.

The urge to beg George for the job recedes with the third biscuit.

Lying to people isn't exactly natural, but you find yourself telling George you used to run the company.

He smiles and nods, it may not be going so badly.

George asks you finally if you have any questions. Your mind is still hiding from your vocal chords.

Standing and exchanging a handshake finally breaks the awkward silence. He thanks you for coming and shows you to the lift. The lift doors close.

All the answers to the questions flood back into your memory. Cursing under your breath, your mind searches for the nearest bar. You know how bad the interview went. A large drink is going to be your only comfort. Until your friends turn up and your wallet closes.

After several large drinks, you announce to your friends that it went very well. George loved you and the prospects look great at the company. Convincing yourself and your friends that the job is yours, you board the train and wobble home.

The next morning is just as bad as the interview. Your tongue is tied to the roof of your mouth and your memory is obscured.

The phone rings and hits your head without moving.

It's Darren from Dimwit, Slick and Snaky agency.

To your utter amazement and disbelief, Darren tells you that you have been called back for a second interview. He says George thought that your approach was very different.

You thank Darren and put the phone down before it does you anymore damage.

Without being told your brain goes through the details of the second interview.

The suit needs dry-cleaning, the shirt needs a wash and the need for painkillers finally overwhelms.

Now smiling, you thumb through the pages of Lawnmower Monthly and dream of racing around the garden in your turbocharged mower.

David Fryer has been working in IT for the last 5 years. Before that he was working in Quality Assurance. He's still wondering if the career change was a good idea.

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