The End

Game Over

“fa ya mudda” What? The taxi driver again shouted at me “fa ya mudda” ahhh…’fuck your mother’. NOW I understand. And so my last day at the Handbag factory unfolded. Let’s rewind. July has been a shit month. Annus Horriblus as Her Madge may say. July started well enough with a nice summer holiday in Thailand but as soon as we landed in HK all of the drama unfolded. As soon as we got off the plane my wife went to the toilet. She, at the time 13 weeks pregnant, came out and uttered the words that went through me like a knife…’’I’m bleeding’’. We are in the airport and we don’t know where to go, or indeed, what to do. In a state of near hysteria we somehow manage catch a cab and wind up in Matilda Hospital where my wife is checked out. The diagnosis was a small hemorrhage of the placenta that was causing some bleeding but our little boy, oblivious to the panic, was floating around in the womb like small astronaut his tiny heart beating like a little drum BOOM BOOM BOOM. We stayed overnight and visited our regular doctor first thing the next morning, a Monday morning.

Still with our luggage fresh from the plane my wife again had another scan. Everything was fine. No hemorrhage at all. What? Further examinations showed that it was a polyp, completely unconnected to the pregnancy, which was the source of the bleeding. Not a Hemorrhage. So that will be a misdiagnosis by those fine doctors at Matilda then. Well played. If I was of a bitter disposition I would take them to court but we could well do without the stress at this time. The upshot of this whole episode is that my wife is now a bundle of nerves and had to resign from work with immediate affect so she could bed rest and relax. So that’ll be one income then.

Tuesday I was back to work. As I took one day off to care for my wife one of the robots at the handbag factory presented me a form to fill in. It was headed annual leave. The day of a serious medical emergency, the only day I had taken off sick the whole time I was at the handbag factory, was to come out of my holiday. Not compassionate leave or time in lieu. No sir. The offence was punishable by the taking it out of my leave. I should have called in sick like the other robots are quick to do but my honesty was punished. Something inside me broke and I knew my days were numbered. I could take no more. For all of the reasons I have stated elsewhere on this blog I knew I was leaving. Funnily enough so did they.

A week or so after this debacle and my morale at all time low I was summoned into the office of the HR chief robot. They wanted to discuss where I thought I was heading (nowhere) if I was happy (I wasn’t) and whether the handbag factory and myself were compatible (we wasn’t). I said I wasn’t really sure but was happy enough all the time I am saying to myself ‘’think of the money, think of the money’’ I told the robot about my wife and I am sure I could detect, for a fleeting second, some kind of emotion, a sense of pity and sorrow. It soon vanished replaced with the usual blank expression. The robot considered for a few moments and suggested that talks should resume the next day. I agreed. I knew what was coming but I didn’t know how it would happen – I was being sacked. My wife and I, spent the whole evening worried and trying to guess their next move. How would the handbag factory do this? Nasty or nice? What would be the payoff? Would it be immediate or would I get a few months salary as goodbye present? Either way my employer was not as stupid as I thought – they knew I was killing time and they also knew that they couldn’t use me as I didn’t fit in. There is nothing I can do about the last one, my brain is hardwired European style. I cannot be dumb or reactionary. I cannot be shouted at and I cannot treat each job like it’s the same. I had to leave for my sanity as much as theirs but I was planning to hang in there until September, the month I get my year’s service bonus. Now, a few months short this happens. The bastards. They knew. Getting sacked is never easy but with a pregnant wife it’s possibly the worst time that it can happen.

The next day we talk turkey. I express to the robot my dismay and my horror that this company, this company that I love and would die for, could see we were, even slightly, incompatible. I was devastated. How could they get this impression? It was a performance worthy of an Oscar and it paid off, quite literally. I got a handsome pay off (they had to otherwise I could have taken to court) and now I am unemployed with my tenancy and work visa due to run out mid September. I left the factory on Friday early due to the Typhoon 8 signal being hoisted. I was thankfully saved all of the handshaking and goodbyes and no farewell dinner. Hoorah. I got a cab back with my taxi driver engaged in some road rage incident with a teenager in their parent’s sports car. He informed me of his dialogue with this kid ‘’ fuck your mother’’ he beamed with pride. Indeed. My thoughts on the situation perfectly summarized.

So where does this leave our hero? Fuck knows. I have applied for some jobs (yes the yanks have been informed) and we see what happens. I could be heading back to London in the next few weeks if I don’t get a job. A hellish month but I will keep you, my loyal readers, up to date with my progress. As if you give two shits.

3 Responses to “The End”

  1. pierre says:

    Best of luck, etc!

  2. jingjok says:

    Thanks Pierre,

  3. [...] This is great because now it impossible that my wife can miscarry which was a huge fear after the airport incident. I’m relieved and now quite happy it’s all progressing as nature intended. If was born [...]

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