Ford Maddox Ford

How to tell your loved-ones that you’re out of a job

Well, the cat’s out of the bag.

A guy who works with my wife told Jacquie that I was getting canned. He’d read about it on my blog.

Thanks a lot, douche-bag. Do you realize the shit-storm you’ve caused? Jacquie didn’t even know I was writing a blog, let alone that I was being made redundant.

I hope your huge gaping mouth gets so cavernous that all your teeth fall out. Then I hope on your way to the dentist they jump back into your mouth. And then when you cancel your appointment, your teeth fall out again, and so on and so forth, in perpetuity, ad infinitum. No offense, but I’d watch that on TV. An endless loop of your teeth falling out of your mouth then jumping back in. That would amuse me.

Have you considered a career in children's parties, corporate functions, and gardens/

Who hasn’t considered a career in children’s entertainment, Renaissance Weekends, or just hanging around outside a stranger’s house all the time?  I can’t wait to discover the opportunities that await me when I wear red lipstick.

Now on top of all my other problems, I have to deal with Jacquie knowing about one of my problems?

For your information, you greasy rat-weasel, I was going to tell Jacquie. I have always said that the secret to a successful marriage is transparency. That’s why it’s crucial to open up and be honest with your partner as soon as you realize you’re about to be caught in a lie.

Anyway, this rat weasel co-worker of Jacquie’s has thrown my schedule off by months. I was going to break it to her in September. End-of-the year, at the latest.

I may have time to go back to weightlifting

I may have time to go back to weightlifting.

I had the story all worked out. With my redundancy pay coming in one lump sum next month, I’d have to account for the surge in our bank account. I’d tell Jacquie that it was from some freelance work I was doing for the Mongrel Mob, but it was nothing to be concerned about. It would be just, you know, a little money laundering. Because my employers required discretion, I would be forced to tell people I was an office administrator for the Mongrel Mob.

I would lead Jacquie to believe that the Mongrel Mob Human Resources Director was going to offer me a permanent role, and that this would be a more lucrative alternative to print media. Then when Jacquie noticed no income in September, I’d confess. I’d tell her the Mongrel Mob let me go for incompetency. Jacquie would totally buy that story. And being canned by the Mongrel Mob would make getting laid off by Fairfax as not such a bad thing after all. Not in the scheme of things.

I can forget that plan now. It would have worked. And I would have had three months of doing nothing but what I wanted to do. Hang around a random stranger’s house dressed as a Gnome.

Jacquie isn’t really keen on that idea, now that her asshole friend spilled the beans. She’s more concerned about my prospects, about being realistic. She wants me to find a balance between my dreams and the incredible amount of housework she expects me to do once I was fully fledged “redundo”, as my friend Craig calls it. (I prefer the term “differently abled” myself.)

She’s also worried that an unemployment-triggered downgrading of my mental health will become a nuisance, and perhaps interfere with her enjoyment of boring BBC costume dramas ultimately derived from Ford Maddox Ford’s fucked-up life.

“Don’t take this situation as an excuse to fall into a self-indulgent depression,” Jacquie says. “Because that would be annoying. I have enough to deal with at work.”

Which is exactly what Sylvia Tietjens said to Christopher Tietjens in Parade’s End, just after she cuts his penis off and tosses it from a moving train.

Jacquie didn’t stop there, and now that she’s found my blog and is reading over the archives, I feel like this is just the tip of the iceberg. I guess I know one thing I’ll be doing through my redundancy: accounting for my past sins.

Portrait of Jacquie