‘No human being has ever been as bad at anything as I was at that job. They were right to fire me.’ The writer, around the time of her sacking. Photograph: Daisy Buchanan
When my boss, and her boss, beckoned me to follow them to the meeting room downstairs, I picked up a notepad and pen and braced myself for a boring chat about press releases. It was a chilly, grey Friday in the middle of January, and I really just wanted to get through the day without incident so I could go to the pub.
If my superiors seemed tense or sombre, I didn’t really notice. My boss started with, “So, we’ve been having a chat …” and I made a thoughtful, attentive face and uncapped a biro before processing the last part of her sentence, which was “ ... and it’s not really working with you here, is it?” What wasn’t working? The biro?
Her boss took over. “You’ve got some great ideas, and you’re a good writer, but you’re not doing the job we hired you to do. We need a person who is really hot on organisation, and you’ve said yourself that it’s not your strong point.”
His eyes rested on the exposed inches of my lower back – I’d left my belt at my boyfriend’s house that morning, and my jeans did not meet my jumper. “We’ll give you next month’s pay, and references. You can always tell people this was just an internship.” Finally, I got it. My eyes shone and my lower lip wobbled. Awkwardly, my boss – ex-boss now – patted my hand. “One day, this moment will go in your memoirs.”
Even as a grandiose, delusional 22-year-old with a rich fantasy life, I thought her comment was ridiculous. However, not quite 10 years later I have written a book – my third book – which features an account of the incident. (It’s called How to Be a Grown Up, and will be published next spring.)
If I had been slightly better at working in PR, if I’d kept my head down and made more coffees and learned how to send mass emails without accidentally addressing every journalist as “Dear Simon”, there’s a chance I’d still be there, miserable and bookless.
The passing of time has made me realise that I’m not the heroine of this anecdote, and my bosses were not baddies. No human being has ever been as bad at anything as I was at that job. They were right to fire me.
‘My understanding of PR was entirely based on the film Sliding Doors’
The previous summer, I’d graduated from university with an upper second in English literature. I’d spent the three years vacillating between arrogance and panic. Of course I’d do OK in the end. I always did! But what if I didn’t? I’d had plenty of confidence wobbles at school, but I tended to come out on top afterwards.
At university, the work was much harder, and I spent more time resenting its difficulty than actually applying myself. Getting a degree against all the odds served to bolster my noxious privilege, my James I-style sense that I deserved a happy ending as long as I worried enough during the second act.
Being the first of my friends to find a “proper” job seemed to confirm this. Admittedly, my understanding of PR was entirely based on the film Sliding Doors, and I didn’t really want a career in it. However, the idea of pursuing my actual dreams, and writing for a living, seemed laughable. I’d really have to compete for that sort of job! I’d have failed before I got started.
Getting fired taught me that I’m not the sort of person who 'deserves' a happy ending. I deserve nothing
Getting fired taught me that I’m not the sort of person who “deserves” a happy ending. I deserve nothing. I made a poor choice, I was ill-suited to the role, I hadn’t tried hard enough – and it was up to me to deal with the consequences.
It also showed me there’s no virtue or validation that comes from compromising. It’s not fair to anyone to graciously make them your second choice. When everything goes wrong – and it will – they won’t choose you back.
I was lucky enough to be able to move back to my parents’ house and to find work temping in a call centre. And while there, my dr
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