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Natch, she got invited out to lunch and had a fairly hard time, apparently, convincing them she actually wanted to go. Even then, they told her she had to work out three months notice ... though she stayed seconded to Hertford Square, so none of us really understood what that was about. I, meanwhile, had to spend a few hours trying to track down anyone who remembered that I still technically worked for them ... and then just got told that they'd send my tax stuff over to the new office and not to bother returning my pass as it had been cancelled. I left the personal stuff I had in the helpdesk office where it was, intending to get my mate Seffi or someone else vaguely human there to pick it up at some point: No way was I going to deal with all the shit they'd pull if I tried to actually get back into the building...Next few days, the office got weirder, in some ways ... Dave - with a lot of help from Deb - finished the stuff 'we' were doing for CareSpan (who were so pleased that they. On my desk, christmas cards still inside their envelopes, wait to be opened by a stranger. But in my mind there is hardly the Christmas spirit. I do not feel moved by the birth of Christ, the Savior Son, seperated as we were at birth by several thousand years. Even Santa whom I love for his white beard, big belly, and ‘ho! ho! ho!’ the spitting image of God, seems like a figment of my imagination. Ian has left me an invitation, anyway. A chance to go to Christmas Mass, sing in praise of everything I cannot put real words to and oh! I love it so! I love him, I really do, but I wish he weren’t such as a church-goer. I am terribly afraid of loud organs in large closed spaces. Almost spooky it felt the last time I went. ‘8am. See you there’, it says on the note. But I didn’t go. You know me. I never keep appointments that I make. Especially not at 8am to go to someone’s cult gathering when it’s 20 degrees outside and I can be warm and asleep. You left a message on the phone. Usually.
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