Yippee. I’m moving house. Again.
Our one-year lease is up at the end of the month, and one of the two people I’m currently sharing with has already made another arrangement, even though we aren’t obliged to move. The remaining pair of us have decided to make a move to a smaller place, rather than try to get someone else in to fill the empty room at an uncompetitive rate. A day later, and we’ve already checked out a very interesting place in Ballsbridge which, despite the name, is a much posher area of Dublin, a fair bit closer to work for me.
This is getting tedious, but it is at least getting easier each time. But how the hell am I supposed to make any long-term plans, when I have to keep moving every year, when my employer appears to be committing corporate suicide, when the experience I’m getting from my job is not the kind I want to have?
My particular department at work has been largely insulated from major changes so far, but not from little ones, the drip, drip, drip that gradually wears away at any animal, mineral or vegetable. We are cracked, in every sense of the word, yet somehow still holding together; as together as we ever really were, anyway. When you get to our level, management has to tolerate a degree of individuality in its staff, and I once joked that, if our manager left, he could get a good job with an opera company, with all his experience of managing a bunch of prima donnas.
I guess the way forward is the one familiar to any Boy Scout: Be Prepared. Travel light, and assume nothing.