53: Two More Days




Only two more days to go. Not that I’m wishing myself away – just the day job. In two days, step out of my workplace knowing that I will never have to step back in.

Not that I will be completely unfettered. The full unfettering won’t happen until the date of expiry. Not my expiry – I have a book (or two or three or more) to write, before I even consider my own expiry date – but until the official expiration of my slave contract. Until then, like Dobby, my creative functions will remain in servitude. Restricted.

Still, in two more days, the decoupling process will at least be in progress. What right have I to expect such things to be instant, when even with one’s own permission, it takes a person sixty days just to delete their own Microsoft account?

All things considered, then parting with an employer, or with Microsoft, is a lot like going to one’s local hairdressers and asking to have one’s own bank of dead cells dyed copper orange:


‘Yes, copper?’

‘That’s very bright!’

‘Yes, I know!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. I want to be copper!’

‘I know what to do. How about combining two colours? Light highlights on a rich brown base. You’d look great with the new camel colour we’ve just got in!’

Okay, I think – rich brown and camel doesn’t sound too bad, if it’s mixed in with the copper. But I really don’t want to be blonde.

‘Okay,’ I agree. ‘Keep the copper and put in some highlights!’

‘The camel?’

‘Do whatever you think!’

‘Great. This new colour will look great.’

Reluctantly, I allow myself to be possessed.

A couple of hours later, a freckle-faced bottle blonde emerges from the hairdressers. In the unlikely event that any members of the public focus on her head for more than half-a-second, they may just about make out some orange pinstripes.

I am someone else’s vision of blondeness; the voice of my orangeness shouting out to be heard. My me-ness has been dejuiced, turned into concentrate and sealed up inside a tin.

In the darkness, I wait.

But, I wait only until the tin starts to rust, before I seep out – unnoticed …

And, whilst attention is diverted, I reformulate.


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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