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Joining the Rat Race

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Ah, the fresh smell of a new-born job. I arrived last Monday morning, suited and booted (which, for me, is unusual attire) and headed for the door. In fact, in my eagerness to impress, I’d arrived an hour early, sitting at the side of the road and taking in the delights of an early morning Frimley. Schoolkids reluctantly heading off to school, suited men rushing to catch their delayed trains, a few drunks outside Waitrose supping their first (and surely not their last) bottle of White Lightening (a cider whose description should surely read “paint stripper with a hint of apple”). After a while, I noticed nervousness creeping up, and I sped off to the office.
The imposing building welcomed me with all it’s red-brick charm. I stepped over the threshold – and that was it. I was in.
You may wonder at the melodrama I’m creating here – it’s only a job, I hear you say. Not so – this is my first change of job that was entirely my idea, the first time I’ve actually got something to lose. I’ve left behind a good group of people and security to wonder into an unknown – and it is a little concerning.
But no matter, those first few days were a breeze. It’s a big step up the career ladder – there’s a lot to learn, no doubt, and there’s a lot to prove – but the eternal optimist in me always kicks in and allays those troublesome fears. I will be fine.