Something Good

Something Good

It's back, that bungee-jump feeling, that
stomach-churning-gut-wrenching fear of toppling off my stable platform
with nothing more than a few metres of dodgy elastic to slow the
descent. Over the last few months I'd almost begun to feel secure. With
a long-term contract signed (not as lucrative as previous years, but
more than sufficient to support my needs), a holiday booked for August
(something to look forward to over the frigid opening months of the
year), kids doing well in their schools and my health recovering (the
fear of a suspected tumour having mercifully proven to be unfounded),
I'd felt the precipice recede. Now it's March and I get the distinct
impression that I'm being nudged towards the lip of the platform once
again, the tips of my toes already in space. If I could bare to look
down I'm sure I'd see the ground spread far below, hard and
unyealding.

Of course I'm not alone in teetering on the edge. With Bush and Blair
hankering for a war in Iraq and with Hussein crawling ever-so-slowly
towards the public show of disarmament the UN demands, it's more than
likely that whatever moves he does make will be a case of too little,
too late and an ugly, though probably swift, period of bloodshed will
ensue. Whatever the global right and wrongs of this situation (I
disregard the political rhetoric and the counter arguments) on a
humanitarian level, I simply cannot accept that this could ever be a
winnable war. I may not be suitably educated to make a considered
judgement on what the future state of the Middle East (or Europe for
that matter) will be, nor am I in a position to second-guess whether
the stability of the World Markets (which seems to be little more than
a game of Global Monopoly at the best of times) will be improved or
ruined for decades. I am, however, armed with enough sensibility to
conclude that a vast number of men, woman and children will be
physically and emotionally shattered by such a war and that their
innocent lives and livelihoods will never recover, whatever the
outcome.

But this is way beyond my control and rather than it being the force
that pushes me towards the edge, it merely shakes the platform on which
I stand, emphasising the sense of instability. No, the reason for my
vertigo is far closer to home and, though not life threatening or
important on a global scale and certainly not in the same league as
many people's predicaments, its going to make a big impact on my
life.

My client, the company that pays my invoices and thereby feeds my
children's eager mouths and desires for New Metal CDs, is going bust,
and rapidly. So rapidly that it may not survive the Spring. Five or six
years ago this wouldn't have been a problem. Back then, in the heady
days of mass computerisation when companies sought to reduce staff
overheads by converting as many labour-intensive tasks into a few
clicks of a keyboard, I could have resigned at 11:00, met friends in
Corney &; Barrow for a few bottles of Chardonnay for lunch and have
been behind another desk by 14:00. Such was the shortage of computer
staff. Not that this would ever have happened in reality, to me at
least; I'm far too cautious for such a flippant attitude towards work
and my contracts have tended to be long-term. As far as the liquid
lunch is concerned, such hedonism would have rendered me incapable of
all but the most automatic of bodily functions until the following
morning, and even then my head would have hammered its annoyance for a
few hours beyond that. Not that some of my fellow freelancers didn't
take advantage of the situation. I remember one guy, a scruffy junior
programmer from Wandsworth being asked by the Project Manager if his
nonchalant attitude towards appearance was appropriate to his position
within one of 'the most respected Discount Houses in the city' and
would he, please, tidy himself up? The programmer responded by saying
that he didn't have time to iron and if the client didn't like the way
he dressed they could either stuff their job or pay him an ironing
allowance. He continued to turn up every morning clad now in freshly
laundered, professionally ironed shirts.

Well things have changed, especially in that square mile of the city
where jobs used to be for life. Nowadays the huge development budgets
have shrunk to the size of congestion charge tickets and anyone finding
themselves out of work will probably be whistling for a new job for far
longer than my savings will comfortably support. The result will be a
sharp period of readjustment, ridding myself of the possessions that I
know have made my life comfortable and privileged and moderating the
lifestyle that eats so heartily into my income. Its something that I've
thought about for a while, trading this materialistic lifestyle for
something far more simple and less demanding, moving out into the
country to somewhere where I can buy a house for less than the GDP of a
small African nation. The fear is that I'll be less happy than I am now
and have burnt so many bridges I'd never make the journey back.

So, should I hang on until I'm pushed, by which time someone may have
untied the elastic rope wound around my ankles, or jump, embrace the
feeling of flight and freedom, relish the upward surge of air against
my face and hope the descent will be gentle? April may well prove to be
the cruellest month, but equally it could be the start of something
good. I may even have time to do some writing.