Six months have gone by, and I still am no nearer being At Home With Herbie. I am still in thrall to a capricious boss, widely renowned as being a **** to work for (complete strangers stop me in the corridor to commiserate, and every meeting I go to, people I barely know want to speculate about his psychological failings). The trouble is, I have a mortgage, and someone's got to pay for the pig's ears.
So, Herbie languishes at home, with only my elderly neighbour for company/ devoted servitude. (It's odd, sometimes, when I overhear them together, and my neighbour is repeating the exact same phrases I use, such as "There's nothing in here for little dogs.") (Herbie is, needless to say, a large dog.)
My house is up for sale, but it's so weeny (I mean bijou, antique, full of historic character, redolent of a bygone era) (when everyone was much smaller) that I'm having trouble selling it, so Plan A, which was go live in a caravan/shed/derelict croft on the proceeds is not progressing.
There was no Plan B.
The sensible thing would be to find another job in the same line of work, but the last months with Four-Asterisks has left me worn to the bone, and determined never to put myself through this amount of elephant-poo ever again. Which means I'll never get a mortgage ever again, but I've got very little equity in the dolls'-house, so realistically I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life in a caravan.
Self-employment would be an option, if I knew what to do. I've thought about organic catnip mice, pet-sitting, selling things on e-Bay, you name it, but somehow I crawl home each night too dejected to get any of these off the ground. More effort needed. Or a plan, even. A plan would be good.
This was going to be the year I ended up at home with Herbie. His life will be short - so will mine be if I stay in this job.