I am My Job

Sumira 6

2007-01-12T16:22:00.000Z

Very quickly their love had grown such that neither one of them could conceive of a life without the other - both in the here and now or in later life. Both expressed fear of being left alone by death of the other, but were unsure whether this would be better or worse than leaving the other on their own. Loneliness with only memories of their love for company seemed to both Sumira and Michael the worst possible way to pass their final years on earth.

As far as they could see, the only chance they had of avoiding such misery was the orchestration of a simultaneous / joint suicide. Despite all they knew of man’s instinct towards self-preservation, they soon arrived at the rudiments of a pact detailing just this sort of action.

Its outline was this: as soon as it became clear that one or other of them was in declining in health - fatally so - they would get in the car, head for the pass that skirted the cliff tops, drop a stone on the gas pedal, steer towards the sea and turn to each other, falling into open arms as they flew over the edge towards the end of their lives.

They had shaken on it, kissed on it, held each other on it; as far as a pact could be a pact, this was a pact.

Sumira 5

2007-01-02T17:43:00.000Z

Sumira met her husband at a training day for The Samaritans. Before they’d even been introduced they performed a role play exercise in which one represented a Samaritans volunteer, the other a distressed pensioner on the verge of taking their own life. It wasn’t until they’d been through a full eight hours of similar routines that they were finally able to leave their helpline personae in the training room and allow Sumira to meet Michael.

They had three gin and tonics each and Michael told Sumira that his mother had killed herself by walking out into the sea when he’d been only fifteen. He’d starting cutting soon afterwards - his forearms usually, but sometimes that tops of his feet and ankles - and had done so until he got into Ketamine in his twenties. He’d passed thirty before he emerged from this trough, enough of his brain still intact to complete a home study course in psychotherapy.
Ten years on, the vestiges of his turmoil were still evident in the rapacity with which he tore through an entire packet of Camels within the two hours that they spent together.

She told him about the steering wheel, about the tube trains and Durdle Door and between them they delineated the theory of the human self-preservation switch. Their own experiences as well as what they knew about others convinced them that this thing existed: a part of the brain that is hard-wired to trip when it’s subject is in danger thus delivering it from doom and propelling it towards safety.

They’d both tried, in their own ways, to over-ride this mechanism, and both failed. Sumira thought that even if you could disable the first trip switch, you were then taken over by an even more powerful one that acted as an emergency back-up. It was this auxiliary switch that had been flicked that time she’d flung her car off the road in Nice. Realising its subject was disappearing into extinction, it was activated, dominating all other cerebral motor and sensory function just in time to preserve life. They speculated that it may be the most powerful instinct known to man.

“How did your Mother conquer it, then?” she’d asked.

This became the topic for their next meeting and first date.

Over several more gins and Camels either side of a fragrant Vegetarian supper, they’d suggested that chronic depression, other mental illness, alcohol and drugs could all play a part in numbing the self-preservation switch.

Six months later, they married.

Sumira 4

2006-11-20T20:31:00.000Z

It was in France that it happened, as she was driving to Nice airport after an exhausting three day magazine shoot. She had worked long hours, had drunk long into both nights and had jumped straight into the hire car as the “wr…” of “wrap” was called in the hope of making her midnight flight.

The roads were deserted. She was in the car on her own. The CD player was faulty and French radio irritating. It was dark. She was tired. All she could think of was how it was within her power to throw the car off the road.

For a long while, she kept the thought at bay. Plans for next week, reflections on the shoot, the odd gear change just about helped her stay on the treadmill. Soon, the worst of the drive was over and she was looking good for an eleven o’clock check-in.

The roads kept coming, the empty, interminable roads, and her mind kept drifting, less and less cogently, more and more waywardly. Her body felt like a shell, her mind vapid, unpiloted, out of her control.

There then came a flash - the impulse.

She felt her left hand wrench the car away to her right, towards the verge, careering off the road at 110kph. In that movement, joy exploded; a nanosecond of ecstatic concession of agency - physical, mental, spiritual.

Before her eyes had time to perceive the hazards hurtling towards them, she felt her right hand pull the vehicle back towards the nearside lane and her feet crunch into the brake and clutch pedals simultaneously.

When her eyes opened again, they told Sumira that she was in a car that was lying stationary across three empty lanes of traffic and that she was alive.

She opened her door, vomited, turned on the radio and made the flight.

Sumira 3

2006-11-05T21:38:00.000Z

It was only several years into this job that Sumira learnt to drive.

Growing up, she had relied on friends, often boyfriends, to ferry her from place to place and at Uni, she’d simply walked everywhere - not that there was anywhere to walk when her weekly commitments comprised four hours of seminars given by her philosophy professor in the snug of the pub at the corner of her street.

Once in the city, a car had continued to feel surplus to requirements. Despite her tube complex, there remained enough ways to zip around town without having to resort to her own petrol power.

As her career had progressed, however, and she had begun to gear herself up towards going freelance, she’d seen the ability to drive as a way of making herself more marketable. At first, she’d felt fear behind the wheel; fear of what other drivers may do to her. As she became more proficient - enough to pass her test at the second attempt - fear was replaced by enjoyment, by a burgeoning sense of control.

As this sense grew, however, it began to offer flashes of fear once again. This fear though was different from that she had experienced as a novice; she was no longer scared of what other drivers may do to her, she was scared of what she may do to them. With increasing regularity did Sumira see herself jerking her Clio off its 85mph course and either into the oncoming traffic, over the verge at the side of the road, or, less often, square into the back of the vehicle in front.

Usually, sensory input from the reality around her was enough to dismiss these visions - a word from a passenger, an item on the radio or the need to react instinctively by steering, indicating or braking would reinstate her on the treadmill of her existence and confine the impulse to some recess of her mind.

There was one occasion, however when the impulse proved strong enough to be converted into action.

Sumira 2

2006-10-29T19:49:00.000Z

This urge wasn’t confined to the underground. She could trace it back to being six years old and walking at Durdle Door with her father. Whilst her younger sister had frolicked carelessly close to the catastrophic precipices, she had been unable to even stand, bound instead to crawl on all fours, intermittently reaching out to cling onto her father’s trouser legs, tears making it hard for her to see her hands in front of her knees.

Her family had explained this as an episode of vertigo. To her then, this had meant she was scared of heights. But she knew that it wasn’t the height she was afraid of - it was knowing what she might do once presented with it.

At school she had been captivated by stories of notaries who - for some reason or other - had done themselves in, delighting in their methods, particularly those that were spontaneous. Whilst self-destruction seemed to her to be most often born of some form of unhappiness, Sumira sensed that there was a wanton element in humans - in her, as in others - to destroy for destruction’s sake. At university she enjoyed Sartre’s confirmation of this and for a time toyed with the career possibilities offered by existentialism.

Two years later, she moved to the city and took a job as a PR executive for a fashion firm.

Sumira

2006-10-28T22:53:00.000+01:00

Sumira couldn’t bear to watch a tube train pass her or pull up at a platform. This was a problem as she lived in the east of the city, worked in the west and played all over. To counter it, she either hid in the walkway between north and southbound platforms or, when she needed to stake her claim for a place in the boarding queue, closed her eyes. Only when she heard the airy release of the doors as they opened did she feel able to move towards the carriage and continue with her journey.
The source of her fear was the knowledge that if she saw the train as it approached her, she’d want to jump in front of it.
Of this, she was certain; the first and only time she’d been platform-side with eyes open as a train pulled up, she’d had a sudden, overwhelming, terrifying urge to throw herself in its path. What she was uncertain of was whether this urge would naturally lead to action. She decided that at this stage it was perhaps not worth her while finding out.

Thelonious

2005-11-30T15:50:00.000Z

Thelonious Monk
Melodious Thunk
In love with the horn
From the day he was born
Thelonious Monk.

According to Geoff Dyer, being a jazz musician is extremely dangerous:

natural musical talent + gregariousness

guaranteed heroin addiction + two litres of gin daily + never more than 4 hours sleep a night

=
inevitable mental illness (choose one of schizophrenia / depression / anxiety) + death before 40

Tough breaks. Sounds like a life with all of the normal stuff that grounds you sucked out. Like they lived all of the good bits back to back, one continuous highlights package. Good to watch, but always destined to be shorter. And they all called each other 'cats'. Imagine that.

How

2005-11-30T08:04:00.000Z

How can I contemplate the responsibilites of having a job when I cannot even keep an ill-formed blog up to date?

Larry

2005-11-21T21:30:00.000Z

Yesterday, a Sunday, I got through 6 episodes of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'. It was the entire 3rd series.

I realise this:
I laugh at Larry David and his rich and famous chums.
I laugh in a condescending 'I'm glad I'm not that shallow' kind of way.
I laugh and I smile at Larry's insights into the human condition, into the pitfalls of individual life.

BUT I recognise the blunders he makes, sympathise with his frustrations, and relate to his motivations.
And so, Larry makes me think that underneath it all, whatever job we have, whatever job we are, we are only ever people. People who make social gaffes and tell white lies and expect the worst and doubt ourselves and what we've done.

And so whether I write a hit sitcom or not, whether I'm a roof welder, a musician or a surveyor, I will be much as I am now.

L.O.W II

2005-11-15T22:05:00.000Z

I've been feeling low recently. A personal low, it has crept up on me over the last month or two, but only really made its presence felt in the last 48 hours. Hard to explain? No, not really. Elementary, rational, here are the facts:

I am a medical student in my 5th year of training.
I do not, technically, have a job.
I am 28 and feel a need to work, to be useful.
I am not currently doing either of these things. In fact, I am dissuaded from doing either of these things. I lurk in corridors, devoid of responsibility and purpose, a liability, a waste of everyone's time, useless.
I am frustrated.

And what frustrates me more is that I should be enjoying these carefree times. I shouldn't be wishing them away, but taking advantage of them, relishing the lie-ins, the half-days, the lack of bleep. I talk to enough doctors to know that these are the times to savour; ever after is a struggle, an uphill, exhausting, spirit-sapping struggle.

But it is this that is making me feel low. This knowledge of what's to come combined with my age-induced desire to get there is to blame for this cloud of discontent. I am ready for this career to begin, but when I look ahead to it, I'm not sure I like much of what I see.

Having already cut short one career to embark on this one, such simmering feelings are hard to interpret with complete honesty, and even harder to manage. Hence the L.O.W of yesterday and today.

Zissou / Cousteau

2005-11-14T09:08:00.000Z

Wes Anderson's 'The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou' led me to The Cousteau Society's website. 'The Captain' describes himself as a pioneering oceanographer, contributing to inventions such as the scuba and to heightening awareness of marine conservation. He made films of his expeditions, wrote books and became an international celebrity. The Society's mission statement is:

Educating people to understand, to love and to protect the water systems of the planet, marine and fresh water, for the well-being of future generations.

Awesome. Now, that is a job. I could have done with a word with his careers advisors when I was 10. I flicked through the site and came across this excerpt from an interview with The Captain:

"Now, you ask about my vocation. To be honest, I had three vocations and it so happened that I was nearly able to achieve all three in the end. The first was to be a naval officer, because when I was young, I would stand at the edge of the sea and watch the ships pass by: it fascinated me. You know, a vocation for kids is often based on things as fragile as that! The second, if the sea didn't work out, I wanted to be a doctor, a radiologist; that fascinated me, too. Finally, perhaps it was my taste for gadgets coming out, the third vocation was filmmaker. Now you see, in order, what I wanted when I was about 10 years old.

"No, you're never happy with yourself. But I find it rather amusing that fate should have steered me toward activities that are, almost exactly, what I wanted when I was ten. And completely by chance."

So he just built his own job. What do I like? Oh, I like the sea, fancy a go at making some films, chuck a bit of medicine in, that's what I'll do. Simple stuff. But take note and heed The Captain: you're never happy with yourself.

Ono

2005-11-09T13:12:00.000Z

The final chapter of 'An Artist of the Floating World'. The ageing artist, Ono, is reminiscing with an old colleague, the both of them hobbling along on walking sticks:

"For the likes of us, Ono, our contribution was always marginal. No one cares now what the likes of you and me once did. They look at us and see only two old men with their sticks."

Undaunted, Ono continues to revisit old haunts, and heads towards the villa in which he learnt his craft:

"As I sat there, looking down at the villa, a deep sense of triumph and satisfaction began to rise within me......It was a profound sense of happiness deriving from the conviction that one's efforts have been justified; that the hard work undertaken, the doubts overcome, have all been worthwhile, that one has achieved something of real value and distinction."

And it is this moment, not the career he is looking back on, that makes him content;

"For however one may come in later years to reassess one's achievements, it is always a consolation to know that one's life has contained a moment or two of real satisfaction such as I experienced that day up on that high mountain path."

Satisfaction is deferred, the moment it arrives is when contentment sets in, and we shall all be old men with our sticks.

Antii

2005-11-07T19:32:00.000Z

Antii is a footballer. I do not know him personally, but I have followed the progression of his career over the last 4 or 5 years or so. This started when he got a job with the (then) Premiership football club that I support / sympathise with.

Now, Antii is a goalkeeper. Within months of him starting his job at my club, it became clear that he was a very good goalkeeper. A very, very good goalkeeper. So good, in fact, that for the period of time that he was playing in the Premiership, he was widely considered to be one of, if not the best goalkeepers in the country. He was at the very top of his profession.

And then his/my club got relegated. By dint of the fact that he had some rather sub-standard colleagues, and through no fault of his own, he had suddenly been demoted to work at a level that was way beneath him. From competing against the very very best footballers in the business, he was reduced to dealing with a bunch of also-rans, a load of eager, but green kids, and some tired old pros whose best days had been and gone.

What to do? Well, it seemed obvious. Still relatively young for his particular role, a move back to the elite would guarantee him several more years in the big time at the prime of his career. Surely, he'd just apply for a job at one of the big companies - Manchester United, Celtic, Arsenal were talked of. If he didn't, it would only be a matter of time before they came to him. And so they did. And what did Antii do? He said no.

He said no to a bigger challenge, no to more pressure, no to worldwide exposure, no to greater responsibility and no to kudos, respect amongst his peers and the general public. And in doing so, he said yes to an easier life, yes to being a big fish in a small pond, yes to job security and yes to allegiance to a small community, to feeling comfortable in his surroundings, to the status quo.

If Antii were a Doctor, he'd be becoming a GP.
If he were a journalist, he'd be joining a local rag as features editor.

What is enviable about his position is that before he's made this choice, he's had a taste of the big time. Before becoming a country GP, he's been the hot shot cardiothoracic surgeon. Before writing features on ducks in Cumbria, he's been the Arts Editor on The Guardian.

Going 'backwards' in a career is for most of us unthinkable, and for whatever reasons, impossible. We just don't have the luxury of getting to the top, and then taking it easy and kicking on back. It's all or nothing. Like my friend, Jim, it's Alan McGee or it's easy street. Antii is a lucky boy. He's had it all, he's made his name, and now he's fucked off to Devon to be a 4 day a week GP. And he's still bloody good at what he does.

L.O.W

2005-11-06T22:45:00.000Z

Disturbing. The aforementioned Ikea have a new advertising campaign. I first saw it on the wall at Highbury and Islington tube station, and I have since delved into the depths of its website.

Much more on this soon - as I am convinced that it deserves an awful lot of thought - but suffice to say at the moment that the gist is, 'buy furniture from Ikea because it's cheap so you won't have to work very much to pay for it.' The title of this campaign is LIFE OUTSIDE WORK.

My gut reaction is that it is consigning 'work' to some other dimension that is unimportant and most probably painful and meaningless. I may be wrong. This needs consideration. To follow.

Newson

2005-11-05T12:39:00.000Z

Never before have I had to buy so much furniture. Indeed, the prospect of moving into an empty house is just a bit daunting. There are the obvious things to buy - beds, sofas etc - but there are also things like spatulas, saucepans and - as my girlfriend regularly points out - soap dishes.

Before the inevitable capitulation leading to a sad Sunday at Ikea Croydon branch, there are high hopes of finding some exciting, original design at affordable prices. These have led to me come across such glorious websites as Thorsten van Elten's where I found the chair pictured above.

I enjoy looking at it. What a beautiful thing. It is by Marc Newson, a product and furniture designer currently exhibiting at the Design Museum in London.

It is a unique object in the world, one that would truly not exist if it weren't for Marc Newson. It has come from within his head, and it has been made by his hands - or at least under his specific instructions - and now, here it is. The fact that it is a beautiful thing just enhances that achievement, makes me even more envious of his job and makes me want it in my empty lounge.

How many chairs would I need to design before I was satisfied? Perhaps only the one. Perhaps I'd never be satisfied and never ever stop designing chairs. Perhaps that's what Marc Newson did.

Jim

2005-11-02T16:28:00.000Z

When I first moved to London, Jim and I lived together. We both did lots of work experience - that is working for no money - me in TV, him in the music industry. Now, I am nearly a doctor and he is a hot shot in...the music industry.

Last night he told me that he was torn between pushing on and becoming an Alan McGee style svengali and kicking back, taking work easy, and enjoying all the other things in life. The former would require him to go to gigs 24/7, take on as much work as possible, generally step up. The latter would entail nothing more than relaxing his foot from the gas pedal.

But when does he make that choice? Do we ever know when we are actually making these kind of choices, or do they just sort of happen inevitably driven by a mixture of our character and circumstances beyond our control?

Jim loves to cook. He loves to spend time with his girlfriend, to read the papers and drink coffee on a Saturday morning, to grow vegetables in his garden and watch the Leicester Tigers play rugby. But he also loves his job, and he really could be another McGee. He is in position to become such a man, a man of influence and respect, an innovator.

He told me about the necessary sacrifices and compromises he would have to make either way, and from the way he talked, it seemed to me that he already knows which way his career will go. He is ambitious and brilliant, but he loves to be at home. Perhaps the decision has already been made for him.

The Flower Man

2005-11-01T03:36:00.000Z

On occasions, I have felt bad not to have bought my girlfriend flowers more often. Various factors have prevented me from buying them as often as possible, but the most decisive one has been that I don't pass a flower seller on my way home.

Now, I do. Well, I don't quite pass him, but he's just around the corner from what would be on the way home. On Friday, I met him for the first time. He is 45, white, with white man dreadlocks and a voice as gravelly as 30 years of constant smoking.

"Alright, babe, how much do you wanna spend?"

We decided on the right price, the right bouquet, and then filled time with some talk as he prepared the flowers. He told me that two kids had nicked some of his flowers earlier that day. He then told me that by the weekend, something nasty would happen to them. He knew where they lived. I believed him.

"Been doing this since I was 15, mate. 15. What a job."

He has an assistant who speaks intelligible cockney through a cigarette. They have been working together all that time in different shops around London.

"Those kids. Fucking shits. Don't you worry, mate, they'll be kidnapped by the weekend. Oi, smell that. Fucking beautiful, innit?"

Before the bouquet is secured, strung together by a rough bow, he tells me how one of his friends was shot by a gangster, about the riots down at the council estates.

"Lovely, what's your name, mate? I wanna see you back here in 2 weeks. Me? They call me The Flower Man. Or John..."

Father

2005-10-28T23:02:00.000+01:00

Last night, I had some dinner with my Mother and Father. My Father is a doctor, an eye doctor. Over the clam sauce, I asked my father how his job was going. He told me that it was fine, the same as ever, and recounted this small story:

"I saw this old boy in my clinic. 93. And he said to me,
'How long have you been doing this for now?'
'30 years,' I told him.
'Aren't you bored of it yet?' he said.
'Totally!' I replied. 'What was your career?'
'Me? I was a teacher."
'Oh really. Did you ever get bored of that?'
'Of course I did. Doesn't everyone?!'"

Matt

2005-10-27T22:14:00.000+01:00

And so I always wanted to be a musician. A musician in a band and maybe also just a musician on my own. But the sadness is I was never able enough at any instrument let alone singing. These days, I have two guitars propped up against each other, and sometimes I will pick one of them up, note that it is grubbily out of tune and twang at it for a while. I write one song a year and it is generally the same.

A friend of mine told me last night that he had been jealous recently of musicians that he had been spending time with. He envied their lifestyle. He liked what sort of people they were. He enjoyed their company. I thought of my good friend, Matt, who is a musician. He has always been one, but has fought to be one too, and now really is one, as that is all he does. He has battled for it to become his job.

Since it has become his job, he has bought better clothes and watched more films, I think. I see him much less often now, but when I do, I feel slightly in awe, I don't know why. I suppose it is because he has done something that wouldn't exist if he weren't doing it. How many of us can say that? His band are called The Fallout Trust and they have made a very good song that is out on Monday 31st October. It plays here: www.thefallouttrust.com.

When I am some years older, I will buy a saxophone and learn to play it. I will make recordings, I will make things that no one else could have made. There has to be some room for this somewhere in life.

Dreamreader

2005-10-26T02:46:00.000+01:00

I am reading 'The End of the World', by Haruki Murakami. Whilst on the bus, I noticed this conversation between the narrator who has just arrived at the end of the world, and the Gatekeeper;

"This is a poor town. No room for idle people wandering around. Everybody has a place, everybody has a job. Yours is in the library reading dreams. You did not come here to live happily ever after, did you?"

"Work is no hardship. Better than having nothing to do, " I say.

"There you are," says the Gatekeeper, nodding squarely as he eyes the tip of his knife. "So the sooner you get yourself to work, the better. From now on you are the Dreamreader. You no longer have a name. Just like I am the Gatekeeper. Understand?"

Tom

2005-10-24T17:59:00.000+01:00

At a cheese festival, I met a man called Tom who is a chartered surveyor. I think this means that he checks out buildings structurally and then instructs potential buyers on how much he thinks they should be worth.

Last week he worked from 7 til 7 every day, and had to take clients out a couple of times in the evenings. He told me that he worries constantly about work. He wishes that he could 'switch off', he says.

I thought that maybe all this might mean that he wanted another job. But no. This is his job for life. One day he'll be a partner there.

I couldn't tell whether he likes his job. I wasn't sure if he ever chose this career. But I'm certain that he doesn't worry about whether he's in the right job. It didn't seem to cross his mind that he could be doing something else, that maybe something else was more him. But then, this job is him now. He looks comfortable in it, comfortable talking about it, comfortable being it.

After the cheese, before another week at work, he was going to his 'leisure club', to have a jacuzzi and relax.

Roof Man

2005-10-21T18:10:00.000+01:00

It is a grey, grey London morning. There is strong wind and bursts of heavy rain. Having woken up, and looked out of my bedroom window, I saw a man on a roof.

I don't know what he is doing there. He is very high up in what must be treacherous conditions. From the nonchalance he is showing, he must be a professional. This must be his job.

In one hand, I could see a sort of metal rod. In the other, he seemed to be holding fire. At his feet was a red canister. Perhaps he is a welder. Perhaps he is a welder and today he has some roof welding to do.

I don't like heights, so I don't think I could be a welder. He is a bald man and looks about 50. I don't want to be doing work like that, dangerous high up work like that when I'm 50. But someone has to. Someone has to put up their hand and say "I am a welder, and sometimes I weld roofs" because if no one did, then no roofs would get welded.

We are just lucky that there are people who aren't afraid of heights, that there is someone for every job in our society. But which way round is it? Are there people for jobs, or jobs for people? I could never be a roof welder, but I'm sure that the bald man could have been a doctor if he'd ever wanted to.

Batman

2005-10-17T19:41:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I heard Batman say this:

"It's not who I am on the inside, it's what I do that defines me."

Rich

2005-10-15T16:00:00.000+01:00

After seeing psychiatrists, I meet my friend Rich. I have known him for nearly 10 years now, but it is not often that we get to meet and talk. He has been a bit lonely recently and is in the process of changing careers. He likes strong Belgian beer and often wears V-neck jumpers.

He used to teach English all around the world. He tells me that he did the job to provide him with the lifestyle he wanted; he wanted to travel, so he got a job that would let him do that.

He is bored of that now though, and so has swapped things around. The job is going to come first and the lifestyle second. He has chosen to become a journalist. To do this, he had to complete a course, and then get as much varied work experience as possible. Since then, he has had interviews, and is currently waiting to hear about a very promising one with The Hackney Gazette (www.hackneygazette.co.uk).

If they offer him the job, he will take it. But he doesn't know if he really wants to be a journalist. He describes it as a shot in the dark. Maybe he could have another career in a decade's time. Or maybe, he could be like Alistair Cooke and keep writing stuff for the papers til he dies.

Rich can't work out what it means to be ambitious, but he intimates that it's something to do with stretching yourself and never settling for the easy option. He isn't very impressed by people who just fall into jobs and find that they quite like them and end up never leaving. He suggests that there has to be some inner desire, some planning, before you can be happy with what you do.

He will find out about his interview on Monday and so will know if he is a journalist or not. Whatever happens, he wonders if he'll ever be happy, if he'll ever be content with his job. He thinks it might just be that thing we all have to do.

Ally

2005-10-14T18:53:00.000+01:00

Ally is a psychiatrist. She is not really a friend of mine as I have just met her, but I do now know her, although I don't know much about her.

She is a doctor who works with people between the ages of 12 and 18 who are having 'mental problems'. When I say 'works with', I mean she talks to them and thinks what would be the best way to try and ease their mental problems. This can range from sending them to see someone else, to finding ways to alter their patterns of behaviour, to giving them medication.

She has an office in which she spends most of her time. The rest of her time is spent seeing the children and their families in other rooms. Sometimes she goes to see people in their homes, and sometimes she goes into the hospital to see emergency cases. She uses words like 'unmedicalised' and 'humbling'. She is not like a normal hospital doctor.

She doesn't wear a stethoscope around her neck and she doesn't wear a suit. She had these cool Japanese clogs on and a shirt that it would be ok to do the painting in. She seemed happy and not stressed and like she enjoys her job. When I meet her again, I will find out more about her.

MOADD

2005-10-14T11:08:00.000+01:00

I am My Job has been inspired by the work of a friend of mine. Currently Dazed and Confused with life and work, he has begun to compile the unmissable MOADD (Musings of a Disheartened Doctor).

Please follow his adventures at www.thelostdoctor.blogspot.com

We are Our Jobs

2005-10-14T00:49:00.000+01:00

A lot of people I know have jobs. Some people I know don't. The ones that do want other jobs, and the ones that don't want a job. I don't know which of them is the happiest.

I get bored easily. I don't like being on my own so much, and I need to feel busy. So I must have a job.
I have had jobs. Many different jobs. But I've never enjoyed them.

In 21 months I will be a qualified doctor. I love medicine. I love the intellectual challenge. But what will the job be like? How will it affect the rest of my life? What sort of medical career will make me most happy?

I'm going to talk to all the people I know. I'm going to ask them what they want, and ask them about their jobs. We are all different, but a little bit of each of us is defined by that thing we do every day, that job. With their help, I think I can work out what it is I really want. And then, maybe, I can find the way to get it.