Counting from today, I have officially got eight more weeks at my current job. I've been working there for four and a half years, and for an assortment of reasons, I'm taking voluntary redundancy this summer. The countdown begins: on May 10th, c'est fini. Scary. I'll be a 'freelancer' after that, which is code for 'bankrupt scrounger' - score. In the meantime, I get to flounce about work talking about what it'll be like on the glorious outside, taunting my colleagues with talk of such mythical things as 'daylight', and, well, 'more daylight'. We're very vitamin-D deprived in my job. When I'm unemployed I'm going to lie out on the street soaking up the rays, and all the poor employed drones will have to step around or over me, on their way to their jobs where they'll do horrible, awful, things like go to meetings and pay off their mortgages. Damn mortgage, how I hate you and your accursed kind. But, suck it mortgage, the redundo-countdown is on.

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