3 weeks, 3 days

I’ve done it. I’VE DONE IT.

I had to wait an interminable age until my boss actually decided to head home for the evening (he inexplicably opted to stay until nearly 8pm, which I’ve never witnessed before), but I waited until the coast was clear, typed up my preternaturally restrained letter of resignation, spent 25 minutes hunting around for an envelope (perils of the digital age) and then perched it jauntily on his keyboard for early morning discovery. The presence of a few stragglers from the media team prevented me doing a little dance, but I did one inside.

No going back now. Not least because I’ve lost my pass and can’t actually get into the building until the receptionist does.

I said one month’s notice in the letter, but since that includes my pre-booked holiday to Sicily (which is, in fact, one-way, followed by a one-way ticket to Rome, followed by a one-way ticket to Bangkok), it’s only actually 3 weeks and three days to lift-off. 3 weeks, 3 days until I get on a plane, after which I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, essentially for the rest of my life.

Oh my f***ing god, what have I done?

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