My friend Dale once said to me that I seem to blog when I’m in a good place. Given that this has been my hobby for eight years now, it’s a bit of a sad indictment of the last few months that I haven’t written a blind word.

I suppose the last you heard of me, besides making vague diet plans, was that I was considering moving in with my Mum after my housemate dropped out on me. Well, I ought only to give the potted version of what happened next, if only for brevity’s sake.

The move out of my old house was easy. Careful planning and timely packing meant that we managed to have a very chilled weekend of van loading, despite minor accidents such as my sister locking herself out of the van. However, it turned out that the weekend move was the only thing going to plan. My Mum was moving on to a flat, and the plan was that I would live out of a suitcase for about two months while the deal went through, then on we would move and settle properly. Reality ended up biting us in the arse. Cutting a long story short: there was a change of potential flat, which meant that the buying process had to start again, and then the process got dragged out by issues with mortgage providers and solicitors. Two months of me camping out in a bedroom turned to four.

In the meantime, I was doing temporary office jobs having quit cinema work for the second time. This wouldn’t have been a bad thing, were it not for the fact that I became something of a go-to guy for roles in the city council. For legal reasons, I can’t say too much about the problems going on in there, but the long and short of it is that the recruitment freeze that has been in place for the last three or four years and restructuring across the organisation have taken their toll on staff levels and morale. Given that I suffer from an unspecific depression/anxiety illness, this is not best working environment in the world. So, given the choice between going on the dole and trying to find something more stable, and having a nervous breakdown and navigating sickness and disability pay, I threw my last job over.

I should have had two weeks off to recover. Instead, the move happened a week after I finished my notice period. And the attempt to move from a big house to a two-bedroomed flat quickly became chaos. I’m not a gibbering wreck (although I am struggling with insomnia at the moment), and after about six weeks on benefits a lifeline was thrown to me: my old cinema was recruiting again. So I’m back to square one, sort of, but it’s better than the alternative. Besides, I’m getting paid for doing something I enjoy now, so that’s a bonus.


~ by Scary Rob on 9 October, 2012.

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