Rosie’s school sports day. Our great leader David Cameron makes a brief appearance on the school playing fields. He’s there because his government has just released its plans for a new curriculum that will teach fractions and basic computer programming to 5-year-olds… from September 2014. Much as I have a deep dislike for Michael Gove, the human worm and current education secretary, I’m not entirely dismissive of his proposed changes to the national curriculum. I find something reassuring in the focus on maths and science. (I’ve only had the briefest of glances at the proposals, so I may yet change my mind.)
Oh yes, this is also the day when I finally – after two years of waiting – receive notice from my employers. Stapled to the generic letter (in which I am thanked for my “contribution to the organisation”) is a redundancy quote – an estimate of how much money I would get if I am not successfully re-deployed into a new post. It isn’t enough to tempt me.
I actually realise I have been made redundant. My letter is still in my bag, wedged somewhere between my chequebook, a children’s book that has been there since Saturday, and a clementine. I have not re-read it, nor do I intend to. My choices remain as they were. I am waiting to see which posts I will be skills matched into. All going well, I will have to endure two interviews at the end of the month. I’ve done no prep for them. I’m in a state of delusion. As long as I don’t think about it, it won’t happen. Nevertheless, I dutifully print out any and all information that might aid my chances, file them in the appropriate folder, and leave it untouched on my desk. I continue to deliberate the choices available to me, one of which could see me moving countries within the next two months.
I keep deliberating these options as if they were mine to choose. Omnipotence borne of hope… and delusion.