I've worked in Liverpool City Centre, (gosh, I remember Day One, 5/2/07, pounding past the historic Town Hall, bustling along with all of the other city gals and thinking I was like Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl," only minus the running shoes.) 5 years and 8 months later and here I am, ready to leave, almost ready to say goodbye.
So, after 5 years and 8 months to the day, it's time to leave my place of work and my friends and move on to the next chapter.
My "big" boss, Sarah, fair, rational, approachable, supportive, challenging. Don't get me wrong, she's no picnic but if I could choose a boss in all the world, it would be Sarah, she's off in the coming week and sent me a lovely farewell and keep in touch email and card.
The week chugged on, the days, both long, and short, busy enough to make the day pass reasonably quickly... but not quick enough, still, my last day is zooming towards me at break neck speed. On the one hand, I'm dreading my last day and on the other, I'm ready to go.
Thursday was a bit fraught trying to finish off work and tie up loose HR ends, I'm supposed to be winding down but no, I'm a basket case.
Friday, and in order to have a few drinks with anyone who feels like joining me, I take the bus to work. That is such a simple statement but in fact, it involves me pre-ordering a taxi to get me from my home to where the bus leaves for work. Taxi arrives a couple of minutes late. I get into the car and three minutes later, (probably less,) and after handing over a £5.20 fare, (I am still recovering from that extortionate fee,) I arrive at the bus terminal. I am of course early, but I'm around 20 minutes early. It's cold and the wind is blowing, and the bus is 5 minutes late. So, after 25 minutes, the fingers on my left hand are the colour of white marble. It's very unattractive. So I have faith that the bus will eventually arrive because I have a bus terminal buddy. He is youngish and is transfixed to his phone, I spy when we get on the bus and he's playing a football game.
Bus arrives thank God and I think at least it'll be warm on the bus. It's not warm on the bus. There is no warmth on the bus from either the driver or the heating devices. I have especially brought my iPod with me to keep me company and distracted. I alternate between James Blunt, (I'm in the mood,) and Michael Buble, he's always good for company.
Minutes later, I don't know how many, I was too traumatised at getting the bus, could have been 35, could have been 45 minutes later. People seem to be alighting on mass, so I get up, I think I'm at my destination. I ask the driver when I reach him; "is this the stand to get the bus home?" "No, you need number 8, over there." I say thank you and alight, then turn, "this is Liverpool One, isn't it?" The driver looks at me like I have two heads, then nods at the polite lunatic.
I get off the bus and look around. It's still pitch dark, I see the "John Lewis" sign and I know I must be in the right place, but I have no idea where I am, I mean, I know where I am but my bearings are shot to hell.
Geography and bearings have never been my strong suit, but I know my short comings and I am not too proud to own up to them. I look around and instantly spot a man in a high viz yellow jacket. "Excuse me, I have totally lost my bearings, I need to head to Old Hall Street." High Viz man was polite, didn't make me feel like an idiot and pointed me straight to my destination; "you are probably better heading out past the Hilton and up the dock road." As soon as he said that, I knew I would be okay.
The wind is at least force 10 as it usually is on that road. I am laden down with bags of goodies for work, my handbag and my large umbrella, thank heavens it's not raining as I'm not sure I could have coped with brolly up too, against the wind, with the heavy bags. I reach a point up the road and decide to cut through, partly because I thought I almost knew where I was but mainly to get out of the gale force wind.
I take a right thinking that I know where I am, but I'm not where I thought I would be. I'm okay, I know I'm not far out. I look at the pavement and I look around me, I wander past "The Slaughter House," isn't that a great name? It's a pub and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside, I'm not sure why, there have been a few publicans in my family and in the family of my brother-in-law George and I'm not sure if that was one of their pubs or if the name just rings a bell.
I start to think about my family and my roots. This is where I'm from, did my Nanna, my Grandad walk these pavements? My Mum, my aunts? My Grandad's Dad even? How come it feels so much like home, when you don't fit in?
So I consider myself a Liverpudlian. I was born in Liverpool, my first three years were spent in Liverpool, my Mum was born there, my Nanna, my Grandad, how far back do I need to go? Yet, I've always felt like the outsider. Not, I hasten to add because anyone made me feel like an outsider, I just do, always, anywhere, even with family.
I've spent over 5 years, not trying to fit in, just being me and feeling like I didn't quite make the cut. And then I left, quickly, I was supposed to give 4 weeks notice but because my new place wanted me quickly, they agreed to let me go in 3.
I hate fuss, I hate attention being on me, so telling everyone I was departing was delayed and my going for drinks after work on my last day announcement... was even more delayed.
My last day whizzed by, my desk was decorated with Good Luck messages and balloons galore attached to my chair. I tried to make myself useful in the morning, went out for a long lunch, I got a coffee, flipped through a magazine and wandered the streets. I got back to work with my stomach in knots and after about 10 minutes, my Manager put me out of my misery, she had opted to save me from the embarrassment of a presentation. I would have died and she knew it, I'd had an upset tum all day just thinking about it. Well it was either that or the bug I'd caught from my buddy Paul who sits next to me, who'd caught it from his son.
Anyway, I opened my card and it contained cash, I put the cash to one side and started to read the sentiments, they were all so lovely, the giant card was crammed with beautiful, scrawly writing, and I loved every syllable.
The end of my day quickly came around and I headed for the pub with about five work mates. After not very long at all, more work mates began to arrive, I think I counted nineteen people, some of my friends couldn't make it, sickness/holidays etc, some didn't work that day or had kiddos to pick up. I felt so touched and so accepted , I was an emotional mess, and it was my friend Paul who set me off. I was doing so well, then when Paul had to go, he did that thing that men do, they push you away and clear their throats. What I can't cope with is men who cry/try not to/pretend not to cry. For all his teasing and jibes over the past 18 months, I know that he'll miss me.
My enduring memory of the evening is that I was, after all, despite what I felt, accepted. The people of Liverpool are, as I always knew, the salt of the earth. My heart ached as I left them, and I will keep a very soft spot in my heart for them, forever.
After hugs and kisses with the remaining half dozen, I legged it, for the 8pm bus and made it by about 30 seconds. An hour later and I get off the bus at my home town and follow a man down some steps, I'm texting J who is waiting to pick me up from the bus terminal and take me home, as I walk and I'm not really paying attention as I step. Seconds later and I'm in pitch darkness and on a main road, not sure where I went wrong but I'm on a busy ring road. Anyhoo, I phone J and several, "where are you!" later's and I plod my way carefully around the ring road and head in the direction of where I should have been while carefully avoiding oncoming cars. I am exhausted, happy, tearful and sad, but mostly happy.
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