31.12.09
2009
well it is the 5th time i am writing an "end of the year" summary for this blog.
i stopped first and reread my december 2005 entry. I had just moved from paris to london to start a phd.
now, here is 2009, i can finally call myself a doctor. that is certainly the biggest accomplishment of the year: over a decade of agonizing work has come to an end, and i am free to move on with the rest of my life. yet 2010 begins with no sense of direction at all- i suspect this could be the year when everything changes. as i have no clear "task" before me, as i have for the past 10 years or so, i will have to seek the new direction my life will take. 2009 was also the year i got an amazing job with more money than i ever thought i would earn.....and hated it. so i am entering 2010 seeking a new path, and excited as to what the new year might bring.
in the next three weeks i will be taking extended leave from my interim job, putting my stuff in storage, giving up my flat, and facing the unknown. i am scared but looking forward to it.
i stopped first and reread my december 2005 entry. I had just moved from paris to london to start a phd.
now, here is 2009, i can finally call myself a doctor. that is certainly the biggest accomplishment of the year: over a decade of agonizing work has come to an end, and i am free to move on with the rest of my life. yet 2010 begins with no sense of direction at all- i suspect this could be the year when everything changes. as i have no clear "task" before me, as i have for the past 10 years or so, i will have to seek the new direction my life will take. 2009 was also the year i got an amazing job with more money than i ever thought i would earn.....and hated it. so i am entering 2010 seeking a new path, and excited as to what the new year might bring.
in the next three weeks i will be taking extended leave from my interim job, putting my stuff in storage, giving up my flat, and facing the unknown. i am scared but looking forward to it.
13.12.09
freedom
I finished my Phd. I can now call myself a doctor.
At one point during my Viva, I was sure I was sunk, that I wasn’t going to pass, that I was going to have to accept that I had spent 13 years of my life chasing an unrealizable dream. One of the examiners attacked with a battery of questions that all seemed aimed at exposing some sort of fraud. I fired back with answers that sounded more confident than I felt. After a two hour interrogation, they dismissed me to go downstairs to my supervisor’s office. She was waiting for me with a shot of rum, which was quickly followed by another. After what seemed like forever, the head of the commission came and called us both up to the examination room. Somehow, I had passed. They praised me as a “confident public speaker.” After giving the verdict, they then tried to make witty, intellectual conversation for about half an hour. I was dazed and could not participate at all. I sat and stared blankly at them. My supervisor answered for me, before hauling me off to her office for more rum…I then headed for the pub.
But I was dazed the whole time. I had trouble making coherent conversation, but because of the alcohol, but because I was in shock. And I still am. But as soon as I snap out of it, I will need to start planning …the rest of my life?
At one point during my Viva, I was sure I was sunk, that I wasn’t going to pass, that I was going to have to accept that I had spent 13 years of my life chasing an unrealizable dream. One of the examiners attacked with a battery of questions that all seemed aimed at exposing some sort of fraud. I fired back with answers that sounded more confident than I felt. After a two hour interrogation, they dismissed me to go downstairs to my supervisor’s office. She was waiting for me with a shot of rum, which was quickly followed by another. After what seemed like forever, the head of the commission came and called us both up to the examination room. Somehow, I had passed. They praised me as a “confident public speaker.” After giving the verdict, they then tried to make witty, intellectual conversation for about half an hour. I was dazed and could not participate at all. I sat and stared blankly at them. My supervisor answered for me, before hauling me off to her office for more rum…I then headed for the pub.
But I was dazed the whole time. I had trouble making coherent conversation, but because of the alcohol, but because I was in shock. And I still am. But as soon as I snap out of it, I will need to start planning …the rest of my life?
last flashback
You know the type. The guy in an expensive suit with gold cufflinks who pushes you out of the way on the central line or at a taxi rank.
The suited travellers with expensive luggage who get to queue separately and board first, whilst they spend their empty moments in luxury airport lounges.
Although my family travelled a lot, we never travelled first class. My parents’ academic salaries never permitted that sort of thing. instead they always watched in amazement as such people wizzed by with an air of (self) importance, just as my father stood by in astonishment in Sydney airport a few months back as I was ushered through all formalities in seconds, having flashed a company card.
The thing I have tried to explain to them is that no one actually PAYS for that kind of service. It is almost always achieved through contra-deals, corporate packages or some other scheme.
So I find myself on the eurostar with my colleague, who fits the above description perfectly. Before going through security at the station, he slips off to the toilet with a cheeky grin and returns energised, having snorted the last of his supplies. Not that he would really have had too much hassle getting a wad of coke past security, but I just doubt by the end of the work day that he had that much on him. We catch the last train of the evening. We sit down and my colleague starts to discuss loudly his sex life, which most recently consisted of the boss’s secretary. An older uptight German businessman who is seated in front turns around and asks Z, my substance enthused companion, to be more quiet. Z tells him he can suck his English cock. I suggest we perhaps go visit the train’s restaurant, hoping to give the German long enough to fall asleep. Alas, my idea proved flawed, as within minutes we are moving back to our seat, armed with a huge bottle of champagne, crisps and glasses. Z is now going back into the history of his sex life, in an effort to explain why he is as he is. Periodically the topic of conversation wanders to the only thing we have in common: our office. We exchange company gossip and calculate the deals we are hoping to bring in this month. (“100 fucking grand, mate, ‘d be fucking wicked, can you imagine? Oh man, I’d be minted, I’d go back to Thailand for the weekend and do so much shit”…dreams Z).
From the corner of my eye I can see the older German is disgusted, not only by us, but by the other English guys behaving in exactly the same way at the other end of the first class carriage. Of course I am the only woman in sight, as the German is only one above 45. The last first class carriage of the night is filled by young English assholes who start chanting “EN-GA-LAND, EN-GA-LAND” as we pull into St. Pancras.
A year ago there was talk that this world was ending. Corporate lunches, first class travel, expense accounts- it was all supposed to be part of a decedent past that had landed us all in the greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression. We are still in that crisis, but scale of horror for now seems to have bottomed out, and even if we are not recovered, we are at least not getting any worse. So the cityboys have got their corporate credit cards back out, and have decided for now at least it is back to party time.
The suited travellers with expensive luggage who get to queue separately and board first, whilst they spend their empty moments in luxury airport lounges.
Although my family travelled a lot, we never travelled first class. My parents’ academic salaries never permitted that sort of thing. instead they always watched in amazement as such people wizzed by with an air of (self) importance, just as my father stood by in astonishment in Sydney airport a few months back as I was ushered through all formalities in seconds, having flashed a company card.
The thing I have tried to explain to them is that no one actually PAYS for that kind of service. It is almost always achieved through contra-deals, corporate packages or some other scheme.
So I find myself on the eurostar with my colleague, who fits the above description perfectly. Before going through security at the station, he slips off to the toilet with a cheeky grin and returns energised, having snorted the last of his supplies. Not that he would really have had too much hassle getting a wad of coke past security, but I just doubt by the end of the work day that he had that much on him. We catch the last train of the evening. We sit down and my colleague starts to discuss loudly his sex life, which most recently consisted of the boss’s secretary. An older uptight German businessman who is seated in front turns around and asks Z, my substance enthused companion, to be more quiet. Z tells him he can suck his English cock. I suggest we perhaps go visit the train’s restaurant, hoping to give the German long enough to fall asleep. Alas, my idea proved flawed, as within minutes we are moving back to our seat, armed with a huge bottle of champagne, crisps and glasses. Z is now going back into the history of his sex life, in an effort to explain why he is as he is. Periodically the topic of conversation wanders to the only thing we have in common: our office. We exchange company gossip and calculate the deals we are hoping to bring in this month. (“100 fucking grand, mate, ‘d be fucking wicked, can you imagine? Oh man, I’d be minted, I’d go back to Thailand for the weekend and do so much shit”…dreams Z).
From the corner of my eye I can see the older German is disgusted, not only by us, but by the other English guys behaving in exactly the same way at the other end of the first class carriage. Of course I am the only woman in sight, as the German is only one above 45. The last first class carriage of the night is filled by young English assholes who start chanting “EN-GA-LAND, EN-GA-LAND” as we pull into St. Pancras.
A year ago there was talk that this world was ending. Corporate lunches, first class travel, expense accounts- it was all supposed to be part of a decedent past that had landed us all in the greatest financial crisis since the Great Depression. We are still in that crisis, but scale of horror for now seems to have bottomed out, and even if we are not recovered, we are at least not getting any worse. So the cityboys have got their corporate credit cards back out, and have decided for now at least it is back to party time.
leaving
So I left my job. Oddly, after numerous threats to fire me, they then pitched a fit when I took the initiative of walking out on them, having arranged to take back my old job at a bookshop. At the last minute I had serious misgivings- this move meant an enormous pay cut. It meant ditching a (on the surface) successful corporate career for an ultimately unprofessional job with no career prospects. But three weeks on, I can observe the true impact of my move- I am relieved. I don’t start dreading Monday morning on Saturday evenings. I don’t take the phone off the hook for fear my boss might call. I don’t spend my lunch breaks hiding from my colleagues simply because I cant bear the thought of attempting to maintain a conversation with them. Rather, my colleagues and I engage in heated debates on obscure issues when we have quite moments on the floor. We throw trivia back and forth at each other. We have a boss we pretty much all get on with. Although I would prefer lounging infinitely about the living room, I generally enjoy going to work. I certainly never dread it.
I am sure I will change my mind in some months when the poverty sinks in, but for the moment I think I did the right thing.
I am sure I will change my mind in some months when the poverty sinks in, but for the moment I think I did the right thing.
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