Left a good job in the city

Maybe it’s just the blogs I read, but there seem to be a lot of guys out there who have down shifted, changed their perspective, or otherwise slowed down their lives. Maybe they have more time on their hands, or have given themselves a job that they can do in a few hours a day, leaving the rest free for writing. Maybe that was the idea in the first place. Maybe they need a voice now that nobody's listening to them at work anymore. That's a lot of maybes.

I know that when I first floated the idea of leaving that “good” job in the city, my mother went through her own version of Kubler-Ross’s process:

Denial:
Me: “So, we’ve been looking at house prices in Cape Town.”
Mum: “Do you know who I saw at Tesco’s last week?”

Resistance:
Mum: “Why do you want to leave [large consulting company] when you are doing so well?”
Me: “Because it’s soul destroying, and I can’t get promoted in my team without ovaries.”

Exploration:
Mum: “So could we come and visit you in Cape Town?”
Me: “No, South Africa’s borders are closed to white English women.” [Slap.]

Acceptance:
Mum: “So what does a flight to Cape Town cost?”
Me “Alleluia!”

So, off the top of my head, we’ve got Black Rat, who has moved from trader to journalist, jammy sod; Late Bland, who slid from coke to Cotes du Rhone; Jonny B, who moved from high powered to candle powered; and finally Jules, who seems to be about to become an ex-employee of somewhere, and is the best writer of the lot of us.

Then there’s me: clapped out in Cape Town. Still trying to work out how to do less and earn more. Or at least earn enough.