So anyway, I started writing a long explanation and then I read it back to myself and it was kinda boring and here's the thing - if I don't find something in my life interesting then there is no way in the world you will. I mean I'm still telling my friends the story about when my car got blocked in and I left a note on the blocker's window screen saying, "Next time I'll bring a can opener!" 'Cause I think it's funny, but from the collective eye rolling I'm beginning to appreciate that they don't.
So, for perhaps the first time in my life, I will now try to write a succinct version of events:
When I accepted the job offer three months ago I was unaware that my primary function in the capacity of Account Director would be media relations. Despite being a PR I am not actually a publicist. My background is integrated marketing with a PR spin (pardon the pun). The first month was more or less ok, because I was finding my feet, so it was only natural that I would feel slightly out of sorts. But then I began to have serious reservations over whether my skills would ever be properly put to use. I raised these concerns with my direct boss on two occasions and neither time did I go away feeling that the situation would change.
By last Tuesday I'd pretty much had enough of working ridiculously long hours (average - 8am through 9pm) and trying to lead a team of only four people on twelve accounts (I'm used to having a team of about eight on just two or three accounts). So I handed my notice in to the owner of the company (my direct boss was in Milan).
The owner of the company (we'll call her Sarah) refused to accept my notice and instead asked me to think about it, promising a radical change in the priorities of my duties coupled with a nice pay rise. Sarah said that it might help if I also discussed my concerns with my direct boss (we'll call her
Thursday came and the three of us sat down to have a rational, grownup conversation. Because that's what professionals in their 30s do, right?
Wrong. Any attempt by me to bring to light the differences in my experience and how the role I accepted turned out to be were blasted out of the water by Fuckhead. She simply could not accept that I might have actually put everything I had into the role in order to make it work. Eventually it got completely out of hand with Sarah berating Fuckhead for speaking down to me (did I mention how much I love Sarah?) and Fuckhead yelling back that she also found it hard to fit into her role, but she'd eventually managed it and therefore so could I if I really wanted to. At one point she even turned to me and said, "The fact that you moan about having to put in the long hours makes me think you were never really that dedicated to your work in the first place."
"The fact that you're such a horse-faced bitch makes me think that you need to be euthanised," I calmly responded (in my head).
It got so out of hand, infact, that in the end I just sat on the end of the sofa, in total silence, listening to these two women loudly blaming each other for the shortcomings of the company interview process. After a couple of minutes of listening to this crap I realised that there was only one thing that I could do.
"I'm sorry. We're just not getting anywhere and I'm now convinced, more than ever, that we're never going to get anywhere. So I'm definitely going to resign. So now we need to discuss how we tell the team and the clients."
We agreed that I would work through the rest of the day, that the team would be told immediately and that I would do half a day on Friday, during which I would hand over my work. This was great, because by this point all I wanted was to be shot of the place.
There was a downside though. Fuckhead delightedly informed me that because I was still within my three month probationary period I could only give a weeks notice and would therefore only receive one more week of pay. Suddenly I started viewing a jokey conversation I recently had with a friend about the two of us starting a rent boy agency in a much more serious light.
When I got home later that night (after a few vodka based cocktails with my boys) I took a look at my contract. And guess what? They fucked up!!!! I didn't sign a three month contract. They gave me a regular long term contract, in which it says that if I decide to leave I get paid for a full month from the date of resignation. They'd already decided that I could leave on Friday, so the long and short of it is that, with accrued holiday, I now get paid right up until the end of May.
On Friday, as I handed over my credit card to pay for the D-Squared top, my housemate called me with the news that her boss might need me to freelance for her, starting next week.
You see? Everything works out in the end. Except that I just proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I can't be succinct for toffee.
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