by Matt Rudd
‘Hi, Pete.’
‘Hi, William. How’s the job-hunting?’
‘Terrible.’
‘I meant to say, my sister-in-law is doing extraordinarily well with some aloe-vera thing. Can find out the details if you want?’
‘She didn’t used to play the clarinet, did she?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Jesus.
Monday 15 July
Two weeks. Two weeks unemployed.
Tuesday 16 July
Two weeks and a day.
Wednesday 17 July
Two weeks, two days.
‘Can I speak to Anastasia? It’s William Walker. I used to work there…Hi, Anastasia. Look, I’m sorry about all this silliness. You see, I got the wrong end of the…oh, right. Right…no…no…okay. Sure…yes. Okay…okay…okay…thanks. Bye.’
Anastasia’s not hiring at the moment. Needs to cut the headcount by 20 per cent. The recession, you see. Good thing I left because she was going to have to get rid of Princess Evangeline. Last in, first out and all that. Would have been a shame, wouldn’t it, since she has her whole career ahead of her? But if I fancied writing an article about what it’s like to be unemployed in a recession, that would be great.
Thursday 18 July
Freelance article for Life & Times. ‘I love being unemployed.’ By William Walker
People assume that anyone resigning from a perfectly good job in the midst of a recession is mad. Well, mad they may be, but is madness such a bad thing? Or is madness actually a sign that you’re still alive?
People assume that anyone resigning from a perfectly good job in the midst of a recession is mad. Well, they’re wrong. If everyone resigned in a recession, the world would be a better place.
People assume that anyone resigning from a perfectly good job in the midst of a recession is mad. Well, they can fuck off.
Friday 19 July
The aloe-vera anti-wrinkle cream appears to be having a miraculous effect. Or maybe it’s because I’m not working. In only a few days, my face is recovering from the hard toil of office work. I look younger, fitter, happier. If I continue to loaf around the house eating fruit (not out of choice, of course, Isabel orders an organic fruit box every week and if Jacob and I don’t eat our own body weight in knobbly apples and under-ripe pears, we are severely chastised), I could live for ever. I could be one of those little wrinkly 127-year-olds they find in the remote foothills of Azerbaijan who, when asked the secret of their world-record longevity, say stuff like, ‘I always smoke at least nine cigars a day, but I’ve never liked butter’ or ‘I always walk to the pomegranate tree and walk back again with four pomegranates, which I then eat simultaneously.’ And sales of cigars or pomegranates go through the roof.
Except when they interview me, I will say, ‘Being unemployed and eating fruit against my will.’ And I might add, ‘Standing on my head for forty minutes each morning,’ for fun.
Saturday 20 July
With Isabel out spending money on things we don’t need, like magazines and branded biscuits and non-home-brewed alcohol and organic goat’s milk, Jacob and I set up a self-efficiency spreadsheet because it’s more fun than trying to write an article about how great unemployment isn’t.
We are both keen to cut down on excess spending in an attempt not only to take the pressure off my job hunt but also to reduce the need for me to be a wage slave until my late seventies. Perhaps, if we could reduce our costs sufficiently, I could work from home. I could find the male equivalent of aloe-vera selling, supplement it with a poorly paid but enjoyable writing income and spend enough time in the garden to produce sufficient food to cut Isabel’s eye-watering Waitrose bill.
‘We need to cut our costs, darling.’ In hindsight, given that this is my fault, I could probably have introduced the concept more gently.
‘Right,’ she says confrontationally, dumping all the bags on the floor. But it’s important, so I continue.
‘Currently, we spend £127 a week on food. With a bit of planning, we can reduce this to £18.’
‘Right.’ I’m not going to let her resistance to change put me off.
‘Because our current accommodation is only temporary, I intend to grow all our salads in portable pots.’
‘Okay.’ It’s understandable, I suppose, that she isn’t immediately on board. People are so indoctrinated into the system, trapped in the matrix that requires us to work like slaves to buy things we don’t need to keep the capitalist wheels turning, they simply can’t see it.
‘We could also buy an Eglu.’
‘A what?’
‘Jacob and I have been doing some research on the internet. For a reasonable outlay of £388 including delivery, a man will come to our house, install a very cool-looking chicken coop, install two chickens and explain how we clip their wings. We’ll get about six eggs per chicken per week, as long as we don’t spook them. That’s six hundred a year and they live for four to five years. Given that organic eggs in Waitrose cost £1.50 for six, that’s £150 of eggs every year. We’ll have made back the cost in…less than three years.’
‘What about the cost of the organic feed?’ Obstacles. Just putting up obstacles. So predictable.
‘Well, that won’t be that much if we buy it in bulk and, anyway, I shall be baking our own bread and only having cold baths from now on.’
‘Good.’
‘What?’
‘Good.’
‘Right.’
Sunday 21 July
What I’ve done here is fallen into Isabel’s trap. She’s lulled me into a hippy existence. It’s an ingenious trap because she’s still pretending to be lukewarm about it. And so I have to persist in claiming it’s the future. Still, my life has new purpose. The chickens arrive on Wednesday. I’ve bought pots and planted endive, red lettuce and dwarf peas. Have also secured four semi-mature aubergine plants. I don’t like aubergine, but it’s the most expensive vegetable in Waitrose.
Cold bath really enjoyable, mainly because Isabel was watching and expecting me to add some hot and I didn’t. Instead, I took the opportunity to explain that not only am I saving money on electricity, but that as someone who now takes cold baths, I will generally on average enjoy better health than someone who doesn’t.
She says she’s delighted. She’s always said hot baths are bad for me.
Annoying.
Monday 22 July
Yes! Have lined up interview at main rival to Life & Times. Because, obviously, one must balance determination to escape a life as hamster on military-industrial complex’s wheel with need to have money. Though not money for eggs or aubergines.
Secret hot bath to celebrate.
Then rattle off article for Anastasia.
Provisional title: ‘Why work isn’t the be-all and end-all’.
Provisional subtitle: ‘William Walker celebrates the frugal but happy life of the freed wage slave’.
Ha!
Tuesday 23 July
Cold bath because it’s pathetic being one of those people who starts something and doesn’t follow it through. Not as enjoyable as the first one.
Anastasia likes the article. She’s glad I’m happy now that I’m out of Life & Times. I’m glad I’ve given the impression that I’m happy.
Wednesday 24 July
Eglu has arrived. Eglu courier assures us that wing-clipping doesn’t hurt our two chickens at all. It’s just like clipping toes or hooves, only it’s with the wings instead. Not remotely convinced but, you know, if we’re prepared to eat chicken, we should be prepared to chop wings off.
‘I’m not doing it,’ says Isabel.
‘I’m not doing it, either,’ I reply.
‘Well, you’re the one who bought the things.’
‘They’re not things. They’re chickens. And I thought you always said you wished you’d fallen in love with someone practical, like a farmer.’
‘Yes, because a farmer would be able to clip the wings of a chicken. And he wouldn’t o
rder a chicken coop over the internet for £388, either.’
‘I thought you thought this was a good idea.’
‘Look, darling, I love you. I know you’re having a hard time at the moment. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help you get through it. I’ll even stand there while you pretend to enjoy cold baths. But I never said I thought spending £388 on two chickens was a good idea.’
She thinks I’m having a midlife crisis. Rest of day’s concentration ruined. I have reached the stage when my wife thinks I’m cracking up. I’m sure that’s not supposed to happen yet. When she leaves for yet another coffee afternoon, I decide to drink beer and watch Countdown. Will have job within the week. May as well enjoy not having job while still can.
And another beer.
And another.
Drunk before 6 p.m. Isabel will be back in a few minutes. Four cans looks bad. Hide cans in outside bin and brush teeth. Pathetic.
Thursday 25 July
WHAT ARE THE FIRST SIGNS OF ALCOHOLISM?
‘Here is a self-test to help you review the role alcohol plays in your life,’ it says when I type ‘What are the first signs of alcoholism?’ into Google.
Question 1. Do you ever drink heavily when you are disappointed, under pressure or have had a quarrel with someone?
Yes.
Question 2. Can you handle more alcohol now than when you first started to drink?
Of course. I threw up all over a girl’s impossible-to-unhook bra the first time I drank. Because it was Malibu, neat, and I was fourteen.
Question 3. When drinking with other people, do you try to have a few extra drinks the others won’t notice?
I have occasionally had an extra swig at the fridge.
Question 4. Do you sometimes feel a little guilty about your drinking?
No, not sometimes. Always.
Question 5. Are you in more of a hurry to get your first drink of the day than you used to be?
Look, are we not being a little alarmist about this? I mean, it’s just one afternoon of secret drinking.
Question 6. Has a family member or close friend ever expressed concern or complained about your drinking?
No, because they don’t know. Daytime drinking is my terrible secret.
Question 7. Do you try to avoid family or close friends while you are drinking?
Can we stop now?
Question 8. Are you having more financial, work, school and/or family problems as a result of your drinking?
Ha! No! It’s the other way around. You lose, stupid internet test. You lose.
Have early drink to celebrate fact that I don’t have a drink problem.
And a hot bath.
Friday 26 July
Cold bath.
Chickens yet to lay. It will take four weeks, apparently, but the brown one looks all set. Isabel is already coming round to the whole idea. Wants to call them Thelma and Louise, but I am refusing because this is a self-sufficiency exercise. If we name them, they’ll be like pets and then I’ll get weirded out about eating their eggs.
The post-lunch drive to get Jacob to sleep lasts longer than expected. He is clearly wising up to the strategy. I can see him steeling himself to stay awake, no matter how ultra-soporifically I drive. There will come a point when I fall asleep before he does and wake up in a ditch with Jacob still awake and grinning.
ULTRA-SOPORIFIC DRIVING: ESSENTIAL TIPS YOU WON’T FIND IN THE HIGHWAY CODE
The engine must be kept at precisely 3,400 revs or 46 miles per hour in fifth gear. Under no circumstances should this change if your child is about to nod off. The child will detect the change, and it will not nod off for another half-hour – if maintaining this speed requires driving straight across mini roundabouts, or indeed not-so-mini roundabouts, so be it.
Talk in low, muted tones over the low, muted engine. If your wife is in the car, she mustn’t talk at all. She must only listen while maintaining a neutral expression. If you are on your own, a rhythmic murmur will suffice. Like you’re participating in the early stages of a ritual sacrifice at the end of an Indiana Jones movie.
If it is a bright day, you should drive only on shaded roads in a direction that doesn’t cast sunlight directly into the back seat of the car. Sunshades are not the answer. Your child will sense that you want it to go to sleep and resist for longer.
If at all possible, minor potholes and bumps should be incorporated, though anything more than a gentle jolt will have the opposite of the desired effect. Cats’ eyes are perfect.
In extreme circumstances, driving on the thick white line delineating the fast lane of a motorway and the central reservation can provide fast-track sleepiness. It should be noted that wives generally oppose this method.
By the time Jacob finally passes out, I am almost back at the house that I destroyed. There hasn’t been a peep from the builders for weeks, which, if I were a glass-half-full person, I’d attribute to the fact that they were so busy putting in the new ceilings and floors that they’d not had a chance to update me. No harm in paying a surprise visit, though.
This is why it’s pointless being a glass-half-full person. The house looks worse than when I destroyed it. Everything has been torn out, but nothing has been put back again. The garden is lost to weeds. The windows are filthy. I must not let Isabel see it like this. She’s happy enough in our unfriendly village. She has the divided baby group to keep her together. And as long as these builders get on with it, the malicious Brenda will be out of our lives for good within weeks.
‘Yes, it’s William Walker. I’m calling about our house. It seems to have been abandoned by you. I’m standing outside now, and you’re not here. None of you. Could you call me back urgently?’
I am thinking of becoming a glass-entirely-empty person.
Saturday 27 July
Cold bath.
No eggs.
No call back from builders. Nothing to do but address Anastasia’s issues with my brutally dishonest article about the joys of unemployment. It needs more emotional honesty, she says. She’s twelve. What does she know about emotion?
Monday 29 July
Called builders five times before one of them answered, irritably, almost as if he’s been trying to ignore the previous calls.
‘Sorry, mate. Got your message. We’re trying to keep the project moving, but we’ve been tied up on something else, which has overrun.’
‘But you were doing my house. How come you’re on something else?’
‘Well, it’s filming, isn’t it, mate? It’s unpredictable.’
‘What do you mean, filming?’
‘We’re doing some of the Alex and Geoff shows. Didn’t I say?’
Tuesday 30 July
‘Hi, William, come in, come in. Take a seat. Coffee?’
This is more like it. A proper editor. Old. Like fifty-five. Huge office. Drinks cabinet.
‘I’d love a coffee,’ I reply, attempting to project a calm, sophisticated persona, like I always have coffee, which I do and it’s not something unusual, which it isn’t, it’s only coffee, so I should probably stop thinking about it and sound a little more normal, rather than overly self-confident with all this I’d-love-some-coffee nonsense. Jesus.
‘So what happened, William? Fell out with Anastasia? I hear she’s running a tight ship over at Life & Times.’
‘No, no, no, no, no, nothing like that. Well, yes. A little.’ Now I’m sounding hesitant and defensive. Straight from the I’d-love-some-coffee swagger to this. He must think I’m some sort of schizophrenic. All outgoing with the hot beverages, but evasive with the previous employment question.
‘Let’s just say Anastasia and I disagreed about the course the magazine was taking.’ Better, much better. Maybe a bit much, though.
‘Right,’ he says, nodding at the PA who has just brought in our espressos. ‘In what way?’
Couldn’t we leave it at that? It sounded sort of impressive. I’ve got a whole list of brilliant ideas for his company. Let’s get to th
e positives.
‘It was a technology thing. Internet. Twitter. Blogging. You know, “the future”.’
‘You had a problem with that?’ Oh, Christ. What sort of idiot-hole are you digging for yourself? Have a sip of coffee. Calm down. Take a deep breath. No, not when you’re still sipping the coffee. Now you’ve slurped. You’ve slurped your posh espresso in this big swanky office like you’ve never had espresso before. You’ve slurped it, it’s gone down the wrong way and you’re choking. You’ve never choked on an espresso before. Just calm down. Calm down and lie. Your family is depending on you.
‘No, no, not at all. I was all for it. I thought that if we were going to move into the next generation of publishing and stay ahead of the competition and, umm, you know, interface with our readers on many platforms, then we needed to be up on the latest technology. Like, umm, blogs. Anastasia, perhaps too young to have learned that you need to keep up with the pace, didn’t see it that way.’