The die is cast.
The deal is done.
The paperwork is being prepped.
And I hope to be handing my letter of resignation to management here in the next week or so.
And I am now really scared. Not terrified, as I was last night, but not serene and uncaring. I guess it’s excitement mixed with sadness, regret (no, I don’t understand that bit either) and fear of the unknown.
Interesting: From a piece in today’s Guardian on ‘Bad Boy Chefs’
The truth about cheffy deportment is, of course, dull - and a real lesson in people management. Who is the nicest, happiest chef of all? Who has the most loyal, hard-working and happiest brigade of anyone in the country?
This made me cry last night. Not the awful selfish still semi-closet case, but Alan and Jimmy. People who’ve spent their lives out and proud and paved the way for the rest of us.
The Guardian review was very sweet:
“Alan and Jimmy, both in their 70s, have been together for 43 years. Alan’s “wonderful mother” always accepted her son, and he has been openly gay all his life. But he was a fortunate exception. They lost a lot of closeted friends to suicide in the unforgiving 1950s. But now they are getting married in Tenerife. “Silly old sod,” said Alan, as Jimmy pottered round the house they have shared for 25 years. “I wouldn’t swap him for anyone else. I’ll never stop loving him.” They donned their wedding suits. “Come on my flower,” said Jimmy. And they stepped out into the Spanish sunshine.”
During their long-awaited wedding breakfast, Jimmy said “I don’t care what people do in bed. Their sex lives are of no importance to me. Your sex lives are of no importance to me, just as ours should be of no interest to you. Mind you, frankly, at our age, we don’t do that much in bed anyays. BUT WE DID! OH, HOW WE DID!”
Beautiful.