I quit my job.
Four innocent little words that strung together have the same potency as a Hiroshima shaped nuke aimed straight at my family. I’m pretty sure my mum had heart failure. My wife definitely swallowed her tongue while trying to blink her way through the wide-eyed horror. Even my dad – who’d spent the last eighteen months telling me to quit – had a momentary aneurysm at the news.
No one thought I’d quit.
Hell, I didn’t even think I’d quit.
But on March 5th 2019, I found myself sat at a canteen table, both my managers staring back at me. One of them knew. Maybe it was written in the glint in my eye or the tremor in my hands. Perhaps it’s just that somethings are inevitable. Somethings you can taste like the cut of thunder in the air before it arrives.
I didn’t even open my mouth.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” he said.