Burnt out and disillusioned

I've never been the slightest bit ambitious. I never wanted to "get to the top". I just wanted to have enjoyable jobs that came with an adequate salary. Luckily that worked out for me and I didn't have to take the soul-destroying jobs that others end up in.

Writer Jennifer Romolini's latest book "Ambition Monster" is a cautionary tale about how ambition can take over your life and leave you burnt-out and disillusioned. She spent years being relentlessly ambitious, until she was unexpectedly fired one day and realised her ambition was destroying her. "The illusion was broken for me. I knew that the big jobs were bullshit. That they were like a stress prison."

I spent many years as a bookseller, and I was very happy doing the hands-on stuff like serving customers, stocking shelves and recommending books. I had no desire to be a manager, stuck in some office poring over sales figures or CVs, and dealing with feuding employees. That would just be unrewarding drudgery.

I've done all sorts of jobs over the years, but management never appealed to me. When I was doing admin work for a social services department it was obvious that the office manager was severely overworked and severely stressed and I had no desire to go the same way. She may have enjoyed a huge salary but at a heavy cost.

If I was starting work today, I would probably have to take pressurised high-salary jobs just to keep up with the rising cost of living. I was lucky to be working at a time when a modest salary was enough to keep me solvent and pay the bills. But that's no longer the case.

Endless pressure

When I compare working conditions today with the working conditions I had in my own work life, I'm shocked at what so many people have to put up with nowadays.

I didn't realise how lucky I was and how drastically things were about to change. I took for granted how well I was treated.

When I worked for the Harrow Observer, a local newspaper in North West London, in the late sixties, it was clearly overstaffed and we spent most of the day chattering and fooling around. We would take a good hour for a liquid lunch. We might spend an hour or two of the day writing the odd story. And for that we got a generous salary and equally generous expenses.

From what I can gather, newspapers nowadays are chronically understaffed and journalists have to work their arses off writing one story after another. And salaries and expenses are as low as the owners can get away with.

When I worked for the Economists Bookshop, part of the London School of Economics, in the seventies my workload was so light I had plenty of time to read the Guardian from cover to cover and do more chattering and messing around. We got a rude awakening when Dillons and then Waterstones took over the bookshop in the eighties.

I hear so much now from disgruntled employees who're under constant pressure, who're micromanaged and set unreachable work targets, who're bullied and abused and expected to work when they're ill, who get home exhausted and demoralised, that I'm glad I no longer have to work for a living. I'd simply be unable to cope.

The sooner employees are treated decently again, the sooner we stop reliving the Victorian age, the better.

But I've earnt it

I love being retired. I love being able to do what I want when I want and not have to do whatever my boss tells me to do. If I want to spend all day watching rubbishy TV, sleeping or having a sudoku binge, there's nobody to stop me.

But it's odd, there's still a small part of me that thinks that such shameless self-indulgence is somehow wrong, that I should be doing something more productive, or worthwhile, or useful, or generally for the good of society.

Why do I think that? There are millions of people out there doing productive or worthwhile things, and there's no need for me to join them.

After all, I did paid work for the best part of 53 years, not retiring till I was 71, so surely I've done quite enough to qualify as an upstanding, respectable citizen, and in no way a workshy layabout or couch potato. Haven't I earnt my retirement?

But clearly there's a part of me that still isn't comfortable with pottering about the house following one trivial pursuit after another. Somewhere in my mind there's a residual hankering for an authority figure to help me on my way and organise my life.

Where does this strange impulse come from? Have I been too embedded in the Protestant Work Ethic to dismiss it all of a sudden and go my own way? Do I feel that if other people are doing productive things then it's not fair that I'm swanning around doing exactly what I please?

I'll get back to you on that one - once I've finished this sudoku.

Economically inactive

The Chancellor is obsessed with getting the "economically inactive" back to work to relieve labour shortages and increase his tax take. In particular he's focusing on the 50 to 65 year olds.

Well, Jenny and I are both economically inactive (unless you count spending money!) and very happy to stay that way. Neither of us have any intention of doing the Chancellor's bidding.

Most organisations would reject me anyway at my advanced age, though Jenny (who's ten years younger) might be favourably considered.

But it would take a hell of a lot to tempt either of us to go back to the world of work. Given that we now have total freedom over our life and what to do with it, why would we want to return to some regimented workplace with its tedious tasks, its incompetent and overbearing managers, irritating workmates and wearisome commutes?

Even if we were offered lavish salaries, generous annual leave and hefty bonuses, we still wouldn't be interested. Retirement suits us just fine and we have no wish to emerge from it.

Neither of us take after those strange individuals who carry on working into their eighties and nineties, without any desire to become couch potatoes or potter round the garden.

In any case the Chancellor doesn't seem to realise that many people are "economically inactive" for a very good reason. They're looking after their parents or grandchildren, they're seriously ill, they don't need the money, or they can now devote more time to the favourite hobby that work got in the way of.

Sorry, Jeremy, you'll have to look elsewhere for your missing wage slaves.

Retired and annoyed

I tend to get annoyed when someone asks how my retirement is going, and I'm trying to work out why. I think it's because either they're expecting me to say it's fantastic and everything's a bed of roses, or alternatively that it's dreadful and I wish I was back at work. But the reality isn't so black and white.

There does seem to be a common assumption that retirement is great and there's no downside, that you're rolling in money and always off on the next cruise or the next luxury city break.

Of course this wonderful image is half-true at best, as the minuses of retirement are usually glossed over or spun as if they're benefits. To name a few:

• You might have medical problems that limit what you can do
• You might be expected to look after boisterous and exhausting grandchildren
• You might be very short of money
• You might miss your old workmates
• You might feel isolated or lonely or bored
• You might have to care for frail elderly relatives

At the moment I'm genuinely enjoying retirement, though I do sometimes feel isolated and a bit lonely. It's hard to make new friends and acquaintances to replace the friends you worked with. Many people are so consumed with the day-to-day demands of their family they simply have no time for new friends.

The other thing that annoys me is someone asking what I do now I'm retired, as if, stripped of employment, I have no other interests and don't know what to do with myself. Why should I have to justify my retirement with a list of worthy activities? Why shouldn't I just watch rubbish TV all day if I feel like it?

How's my retirement going? Is that a trick question?

Good riddance

It's a great relief that my advanced age means all the awkward and embarr-assing things I had to do as a youngster are now well behind me and I'll never be subjected to them again. To name but a few:

• Obeying my parents. Or furtively disobeying them, doing what I wanted to do anyway and making sure they didn't find out.
• Dating. All those nerve-racking encounters with complete strangers, all those clumsy conversations and inept questioning.
• Losing my virginity. All in all a rather gauche and fumbling experience, trying not to make a complete fool of myself.
• Trying to look handsome/dashing/virile etc. Nowadays my only aim is to be not quite as wrinkled and flabby as other seventy somethings.
• My first day at school. I've forgotten it, but it must have been quite an ordeal for a young boy who wasn't sure what to expect.
• My first day at work. Wondering what I was supposed to be doing and almost suffocating in the dense cigarette smoke.
• Going on strike. Necessary as it was, other people's lack of interest in our grievances was disconcerting.
• Getting on the property ladder. Desperately trying to get enough money together to buy a flat and escape greedy landlords.
• Learning to drive. Always scared I would do something wrong and smash into a line of very expensive parked cars.
• Playing football/cricket/rugby. As I was obliged to do at school, utterly indifferent to all of them and hating every minute.

Who'd want to be young again? Who'd want to go through all those things a second time? Not me, for sure.

Deathbed regrets

If you're on your deathbed, the chances are you'll be reflecting on your life and how well or badly it went. And in many cases, you'll be regretting something or other you didn't do, or didn't do whole-heartedly enough.

An Australian woman* who spent many years looking after dying patients and listening to what they said about their lives has come up with a fascinating list of the five major regrets they mentioned most often.

1) "I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."
2) "I wish I hadn't worked so hard."
3) "I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."
4) "I wish I'd stayed in touch with my friends."
5) "I wish I'd let myself be happier."

How sad that so many people feel their life was a false one and they repressed their real self, hid their feelings and stifled their happiness. We still think far too much about other people's expectations, or imagined expectations, and feel we have to change our own behaviour accordingly. It's very hard to just be yourself, however bizarre or outrageous or inappropriate this might seem to others.

How common too that people wish they hadn't worked so hard and spent more of their time enjoying their own personal pleasures, or doing things with their partners or children. Sometimes this is our own fault, chasing after perfection and unachievable goals. Sometimes it's the nature of the job and long hours are necessary simply to get the work done. But either way, it's not healthy.

And how difficult it can be to stay in touch with friends when we're all leading such busy lives. When we're rushing from one urgent task to another, friendships can easily be neglected for so long they lapse altogether. Then a few years down the line we discover all those bosom buddies we used to have such fun with have somehow vanished. And our psychological well-being suffers.

What a shame we don't take a good look at what we're getting out of life while there's still time to do things better. Once you're on your deathbed and heading for oblivion, it's too late.

* Bronnie Ware is a writer and singer/songwriter from New South Wales.

Jobless Paddy

Féilim Mac An Iomaire is desperate to get a job so he can stay in his home country of Ireland. But after 100 failed job applications he decided he had to do something dramatic to get anywhere.

So he's advertising himself on a huge billboard on one of Dublin's busiest streets, at a cost of £1745 for a fortnight's exposure.

He doesn't want to be one of the 50,000 Irish citizens due to emigrate this year to find work, nor one of the 400,000 jobless* in the Republic.

He's already worked in the States and Australia, but doesn't want to work abroad again. Despite the grim economic situation in Ireland, his roots are still firmly in "the Old Sod".

The poster has led to a flood of sympathetic emails and messages, but as yet no job offers. He may still have to leave the country.

People try all sorts of bizarre tactics to get employment. They walk the streets with sandwich boards, offer their services for nothing, and buttonhole chief executives, not to mention stuffing their CVs with bogus skills and experience. When times are hard, ingenuity is called for.

Fruitless job-hunting has to be one of the most disheartening experiences there is. Month after month you send out the applications, only to get polite letters "thanking you for your interest". Or no response at all, just a deafening silence. I got my present job after over two years of searching, and what a relief it was. Persistence does seem to pay off eventually.

So what's in store for Féilim? Will he be gainfully employed in Dublin or will he be heading back to Oz? Watch this space.

* That's 14.7% of the workforce

How does he pronounce his name? That's a good question, I'm glad you asked me that.

A note on the post title: the pic doesn't show the bottom of the poster which gives his email address as joblesspaddy@Gmail.com

PS (Thursday night): I read that Féilim now has dozens of job interviews lined up and is likely to get a job offer very soon.

PPS (June 16): Féilim has been offered two top marketing jobs and is deciding which to take. Emigration cancelled!

So neurotic

"Neurotic" is one of those vague terms we sling at people, more as an insult than a description. "Natalie's so bloody neurotic, it's impossible to work with her."

It's pretty damning because it can mean all sorts of unflattering things. The person's obsessive, they worry too much, they complicate things, they dither, they're over-emotional.

It's not a word we welcome. It implies we're pretty useless at dealing with everyday life. Everything is too much for us, the tiniest thing makes us panic, we fumble our way along like a halfwit.

Once someone has attached the term to you, it's hard to shake off, even it turns out to be quite mistaken. I remember a workmate called Jane who had a deceptively ditzy style. She always looked dazed and ineffectual, with a hesitant voice, a deferential manner and a constant air of timidity.

She was instantly summed up as neurotic, yet this was far from the truth. Underneath the quavery exterior was a steely core, and she did her work brilliantly. She was actually smarter, more efficient and more reliable than many of her workmates, but the "neurotic" tag clung to her obstinately.

It doesn't help either that it's one of those common psychiatric terms that implies the person's a bit deranged and in urgent need of professional treatment.

You don't have to be as considerate and helpful as you would to any normal person because their problems are too complex, too tangled, you'll just get sucked into their hopelessly dysfunctional psyche. Best to give them a wide berth and leave them to it.

All in all, a juicy term of abuse. It isn't often aimed at me but when it is I'm startled enough to take a good hard look at myself. Am I really that loopy? Am I really out to lunch? Or was it just a throwaway remark?

Smoke alarm

I haven't much sympathy with workplace smokers, but the new tendency to make them clock out and clock in whenever they take a fag break does seem a bit over the top.

Apparently a number of local authorities are now asking smokers either to clock out while they smoke or work overtime to compensate.

Not surprisingly smokers are objecting to being singled out for penalties. What about non-smokers who waste their time on the internet or Facebook? Or make themselves a cup of coffee? Or spend ten minutes gossiping with a workmate? Or spin out that out-of-office trip to do a bit of shopping? Shouldn't they be penalised as well?

The truth is we all sneak little breaks from work to give ourselves a boost or fend off a heavy workload for a while. Either we should all be sanctioned or nobody should. It's hardly fair to jump on smokers and nobody else. I'm with the smokers here.

Those non-smokers who claim to feel resentful about 'privileged' smokers should look more honestly at their own personal indulgences and the little work-avoidance tricks they themselves get up to. If they aren't careful, they could find themselves hoist by their own petard.

We all have our dodges, especially if we've had decades of work-experience to suss them all out and refine them into barely-noticeable spells of truancy. One of the vital skills to pick up on your first job is the art of ingenious skiving. But still, that's another subject altogether.

Handy hints

Okay girls, if you're going on a work trip for a few days, make sure your man is well looked-after while you're away. Or he may get jolly cross and give you a smack-bottom when he gets back!

A global health care company, AXA ICAS, gave out advice to its women employees on keeping the family happy while they deserted their domestic duties.

But it wasn't quite the success they hoped for. So many women complained it was patronising and ridiculous that they had to hurriedly withdraw it and apologise.

Some of the helpful tips:

- Cook and freeze all meals before departure
- Leave 'I love you' notes for your husband
- Hide some gifts before you go
- Record some bedtime stories for your children

The most typical response was "It's a business trip, not trekking the fucking Andes". Women were not impressed by the assumption that their menfolk, the poor helpless, vulnerable little darlings, needed some intensive hand-holding while they were busy closing deals in Frankfurt.

I imagine most women would instantly have drawn up a slightly different list of handy hints. For example:

- You can survive without me. You won't die of starvation or domesticity.
- If you want an evening meal, you know where the recipe books are. Or there's this great new invention, the takeaway.
- If you're feeling horny, you know where to find it. In your underpants.
- The washing machine is the large white thing located in the utility room.
- The carpet fairy will not magically remove the cake crumbs and cigarette ash. This requires what is known in the trade as a hoover.
- Don't bother with the woman next door. You may think she fancies you, but actually she thinks you're an ugly bastard.
- By the way, I've left you and I'm not coming back.

Or something along those lines. The only thing they would be happy to cook and freeze is probably the hapless AXA employee who thought he was being so helpful to all those clueless girls.

Just keep talking

I'm not a very talkative person. Which doesn't really matter most of the time. I just say what I need to say, or if I'm silent someone more garrulous will happily babble away to fill the void.

But there's one situation where not talking is a definite negative. Namely, the job interview. If there's one thing that's called for here, it's plenty of words. And fast.

You know how it is. They ask you all those appallingly open-ended questions like "How good are you at acting on your own initiative/ working as part of a team/ meeting tight deadlines/ advanced brain surgery?" and you're expected to prattle away effortlessly about all the impressive things you've done, the extraordinary skills you possess, your boundless versatility and ingenuity, and your willingness to commute 100 miles to their flea-ridden office next to the landfill site.

So I trot out a few likely things and they dutifully scribble them down in their alarmingly empty notepads that they hope to fill with my dazzling and pertinent replies.

At this point I dry up, my mind goes blank, but they're still gazing at me expectantly as if I must have lots more to say. I rack my brain feverishly for inspiration but nothing emerges. My work with baby elephants? My stint in the funeral parlour? Perhaps not quite what they're looking for. Surely I've said enough? Haven't I convinced them yet? What more do they need to know?

This is where the naturally loquacious just carry on spouting, as if every experience in their entire life clearly equips them for the job, starting with conception and leaving the womb. They could go on all day if the interviewers didn't frantically call a halt and move on to the next question.

How do they do it? How do they find so much to talk about? It would be handy to have a little switch somewhere that made me talkative on demand. For when quietness is a vice and not a virtue.

Yes, I had a job interview. And no, I didn't get the job. Ah well, c'est la vie....

See also: Interview pitfalls, Panel game

Heel appeal

Many women are expected to wear high heels at work, despite the damage they do to the wearers' feet, knees and backs. Shouldn't women have the choice to wear something healthier and more comfortable?

The British Trades Union Congress says yes, of course they should. They've just passed overwhelmingly a motion that employers should carry out risk assessments on women wearing high heels.

They say high heels result in two million working days being lost every year through permanent physical damage, and women should be free to wear more sensible shoes that don't cause injury.

Yet shop workers, office staff, airline crew, hotel employees and others are required to wear high heels as part of their dress code. Ubiquitous health and safety regulations apparently don't apply to harmful footwear.

Not surprisingly the TUC motion hasn't been universally welcomed. Those women who're addicted to high heels can't see what all the fuss is about. As far as they're concerned, heels are glamorous and intimidating and get them more respect in the workplace, particularly from male colleagues*.

Union delegate Loraine Monk said women shouldn't be lectured to about what to wear. "This well-meant motion will see the union movement portrayed in the media as the killjoy fashion police."

Come again? If you point out the damage high heels can do you're being a killjoy? So if you point out that long hair can get caught in machinery, or bare flesh may lead to skin cancer, does that make you a killjoy too? If there's anything that kills joy, it's a bad back and painful feet.

I frequently see women clumping across offices or shopfloors in obviously uncomfortable shoes they must be dying to remove, yet traditional workplace dress codes say a woman doesn't look professional or authoritative unless she's wearing them. So how come men are instantly endorsed without having to teeter three inches off the ground?

Stilts belong in the circus, not in the office.

*See for example the outraged protest against the "shoe police" by Flic Everett in the Daily Mail
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Johann Hari of the London Independent has a superb article today about the relentless cult of the stick-thin female body and its destructive effects on ordinary women.

Old and dumped

When the economic slump began, I wondered if the traditionally vulnerable groups would get the sack first. Unhappily they have, with us oldies hit the hardest. So much for anti-ageism laws.

From September to November, unemployment of up to six months among Britons over 50 climbed by 30 per cent. For younger age groups, the biggest increase was only 12 per cent.

Pretty shocking statistics when only recently the British government passed new laws that were meant to prevent age discrimination and give us oldies a fair deal for a change.

But as I said earlier, if employers are determined to find loopholes in the law and kick out oldies regardless, those loopholes will appear. And a TV programme a few days ago explained them.

Of course employers aren't stupid enough to say "Sorry, you're too old. Get lost". So the assorted oldies on the programme had been given all sorts of euphemistic refusals, such as "You're over-qualified", "You'll be bored", "You won't fit in", "The culture won't suit you" or "We're looking for someone dynamic". Cleverly worded excuses that wouldn't get a legal action very far.

Employment agencies simply "lost" the CVs they received from older workers.

At the same time those approaching the official retirement age of 65 are still being shown the door, because the law still allows sackings in certain circumstances which employers are only too willing to exploit.

So it rather looks as though I might be unemployed for some time, unless I fancy sweeping the streets or dishing out parking fines. But would the street sweeping culture suit me, I wonder? And would I be dynamic enough?

PS: Women are getting shat on as well. They're twice as likely to get sacked as men. No surprises there....

Job share

Every other employed person seems to be worried about losing their job. Not me though, as I'm already jobless. I'm just worried I might never work again. How many people want a sexagenarian in a recession?

Last year was a bummer on the work front. I was made redundant by a national charity in February, and since then all I've had is a three-month non-job at another charity where I was twiddling my thumbs all day.

I do want to work. I'm not one of those people desperate to retire and go fishing. I need a focus in my life, something to keep the vital juices flowing and the grey cells buzzing. Sitting in front of the telly watching Corrie is not for me.

If I'd been more astute when I was young, I would probably have acquired some essential skill that was always in demand and would guarantee me constant employment. But having always been a bit of a drifter, more interested in short-term pleasure than the rest of my life, that never happened.

I've spent most of my worklife in the dusty recesses of bookshops, discovering a long list of brilliant books but not doing much for my future prospects.

I'm lucky that Jenny earns a handsome salary, otherwise I would have no choice but to take up anything that was going (shelf-filler at Sainsbury's, anyone?) rather than holding out for what I really want.

In the meantime I amuse myself visiting all those brilliant blogs out there, catching up on my reading (have just finished "Confederacy of Dunces"), getting drunk on all my favourite CDs and doing all those domestic chores my overworked partner never gets round to (or runs a mile from).

And I thank my lucky stars I'm not a downtrodden machinist in some suffocating Beijing sweatshop.

Off sick

Some moralistic twat at The Times has launched a scathing attack on 'bogus' sick leave, saying that too many employees are pulling a fast one at other people's expense.

These attacks are made regularly, usually in the right-wing, "workers are all lazy gits" section of the media. But few people put the case for the so-called "sickie-pulling" workers who're so routinely scapegoated.

The Times writer moans that civil servants rack up an average of 11.7 sick days a year while private sector workers only average 7.2. Ergo, goes the hare-brained conclusion, the former are all chronic idlers who're taking the piss.

Well, firstly, who says all these workers are not genuinely sick? Maybe there's something about public sector work that makes you less healthy? Mind-numbing paperwork perhaps, or constant complaints from the public? The wear and tear of the emergency services, or lifting heavy patients in the NHS? It's not always the cushy number others fondly imagine.

Secondly, suppose private sector workers get ill just as often but may feel forced to go to work? If they don't get sick pay, or they're paid daily, or other people are after their job, or there's a vital contract they have to clinch, or it's a family business that relies on their being there, then they may drag themselves in even if they're at death's door for fear of the consequences if they don't.

And thirdly, even if people are throwing a sickie (and haven't we all?), there may be good reasons for such apparent sloth. If your working conditions are poor, if you're overworked or bullied or bored witless or stuck in a basement, then of course there are days when you think "I just can't face going in today, it's doing my frigging head in."

Or maybe you need time to sort out an urgent domestic crisis but you know your boss won't give you the time off. So you cough and sneeze into the phone, make your excuses, and stay at home.

I sympathise totally. Why shouldn't you protect your wellbeing against indifferent bosses? If employers are concerned about sky-high sick leave, perhaps they should take a good look at the working conditions and whether people are actually enjoying their jobs.

I worked at a charity for 5½ years without taking a single day's sick leave. The reason? I thoroughly enjoyed what I did, I had a great bunch of workmates, and the conditions were excellent. Even if I had a nasty cold, I still wanted to go to work and catch up with the gossip.

The resident ignoramus at The Times should have a proper look at the real-life workplace before pontificating so glibly from a well-padded executive swivel-chair.

Con job

I’ve just resigned a job which the most extraordinary bit of deception persuaded me to accept. In a nutshell, I was interviewed for a job that didn’t actually exist – or at least only part of it existed.

The advert in the paper was for an admin officer cum PA. The job description was similar. The questions I was asked at the interview were based on the job as advertised.

But when I started work, I discovered the admin officer job didn’t exist. It was all a funding scam. There was funding available for an admin officer so that’s what they advertised for. In reality I was doing little more than answer the phone and greet visitors.

The two senior staff who had recruited me acted as though this was entirely normal and nothing unusual had happened. They assumed I would be quite happy doing very little and they could leave me to my own devices the rest of the time.

Well, spending my time checking blogs, reading the papers and watching Barack Obama’s speeches was fun for a while, but then it palled. I wasn’t learning anything and I wasn’t using my existing skills. I was in danger of completely vegetating. So I decided enough was enough.

Now this is a charity we’re talking about here. Somebody funded them in good faith to create a phantom job. Somebody funded me to sit on my arse all day indulging myself in whatever way I wished.

I’ve written before about charities wasting money and this is a classic example. If the money’s available, grab it fast. Who cares what it’s used for? Just produce a phoney purpose for the cash and stuff your pockets. I’m sure it happens all the time (along with the perfectly valid spending, I hasten to add).

The next time I’m interviewed to be an admin officer, I shall ask a few searching questions. Like, is this on the level or is it all smoke and mirrors? Is this job any more real than Tinkerbell?

Back in the kitchen?

A new study says people increasingly believe that family life suffers if a woman works full-time. Both men and women have changed their views on the issue. But why is the criticism aimed only at women and not at men?

Family life can suffer just as much if the man is away at work. But that possibility is seldom commented on. This carries more than a whiff of new attempts to force women out of the workplace and back into the kitchen (or nursery) where they belong.

The study says that in the mid-1990s 51 per cent of men and 50 per cent of women agreed a woman working full-time wouldn't damage family life. Now the figures are 42 per cent of men and 46 per cent of women.

Likewise only 54 per cent of women now think a job adds to their financial and social independence, as opposed to 65 per cent in 1991. But is that their genuine belief or are they coming under mounting pressure to stay at home and give more attention to little Emily or the dirty washing?

Considering workplaces make more and more provision for people's family lives, and that other employees are increasingly sympathetic to the problems of sick children, doing the school-run or other domestic emergencies, it seems odd that women increasingly think family life is being damaged. I can't help thinking there are other factors involved.

On the other hand, many women are genuinely disillusioned with the potential of the workplace for their personal fulfillment. Long hours, heavy workloads, monotonous routines and unpleasant colleagues are making them think twice about their commitment to paid work. If an opportunity arises to quit, they often grab it with relief.

It seems to me that what's really damaging family life is not women (or men) in full-time work but the rising cost of living - particularly housing costs - that means couples are both forced into the workplace to make ends meet. Family life is bound to suffer from this mutual inability both to look after children properly and to have enough health-preserving downtime.
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Sorry, a rather skimpy reply to Quickroute's tag on the Film-Of-Your-Life meme - but food for thought anyway! Let's see now. To play the world-weary but mischievous Nick - who else but Bill Nighy? To be the simultaneously sexy and brainy Jenny - Jennifer Saunders (Janis Joplin would have been good too!). To be my ailing but plucky sister Heather - Meryl Streep. And to be my elderly but combative mum Audrey - it has to be Patricia Routledge (from Keeping Up Appearances). A blockbuster in the making, don't you think? I won't tag anyone else, but if you want to share your own cast list, feel free! Now who could play Baino, I wonder?

Ah, Baino has given us the answer - Dawn French. Nice one!

Crying

I seldom cry. Even at times when I feel I ought to cry, or want to cry, the tears don't come. I can appear totally unemotional when I'm anything but.

Even when I'm deeply upset by something, even when I'm at someone's grave, even when I've been told some dreadful news, my eyes are dry. It's one bit of my male upbringing I just can't shake off.

I envy women who can cry easily when the occasion calls for it, who weep naturally and shamelessly when they've been emotionally shattered by some situation. It's such a basic and necessary human reaction, but one I'm rarely capable of.

People often don't realise just how upset I am about something because the obvious sign, bursting into tears, is absent. Merely saying I'm upset can sound hollow and unconvincing.

I know women sometimes cry for effect when they're not really upset, because they know it gets a reaction, but nonetheless they're fortunate they were never forbidden to cry. Nobody told them they were crybabies or wimps or weaklings. Nobody told them they shouldn't be so emotional or fragile or girly.

It's still the case though that women aren't supposed to cry at work - where it's all too easy to be upset. In the macho culture of the workplace, women who cry are still seen as buckling under pressure, unreliable, not tough enough. They have to cry in private or not at all.

When crying is a response to someone else's misfortune, it also helps you to empathise with their experience, to understand the pain and misery they're going through. If you can't cry, it's harder to feel that empathy - it freezes your emotions and your imagination.

When you think about it, telling half the human race they should never cry is actually a shocking act of cruelty.

Panel game

So anyway I went for this interview. And you know what it's like when you just don't click with the interview panel but it seems a bit melodramatic to walk out so you dutifully go through the motions?

Question, answer, question, answer, and you really don't care any more because you know you don't want to work there, so you recite the answers in a sort of Dalek monotone, slotting the words together like bits of Lego.

You know exactly what I mean, don't you? That's how it was when I shot up to the ninth floor of a swish office block with an eye-popping view across the city of Belfast.

It was a government quango called, shall we say, the Monitoring and Supervisory Agency. You don't need to know what it actually does, but I'm sure it's frightfully useful.

So for starters there was the interview by numbers routine. It also didn't help that one of the female interviewers reminded me uncannily of a woman I once worked with who (allegedly) was heavily into bondage.

I looked disbelievingly at the blonde hair, the thin lips and the beady eyes and it was a supreme effort of will not to imagine her in a pair of handcuffs or tied to a bed post. People who start these unforgettable rumours should be horsewhipped.

If that wasn't distraction enough, all the interviewers were scribbling like people possessed, their red-hot biros scratching away feverishly as if I was confiding the meaning of the universe. I mean, how much information do you need to decide if candidate number six is a little treasure or a total goofball?

So anyway I stoically did my bit, everyone thanked everyone else and I rushed out into a biting Arctic wind that practically stripped off my clothes, my body hair and my eyeballs. What I have to go through to earn an honest crust.

PS (Thursday afternoon): Would you believe, I've been offered the job! But I have another interview next week for a job I really want, so I'm still going to turn this one down and take my chances. Brave or what?