Quitting My Job - A Prologue (3/4) By Joe Hakim

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4).

So I'm out of the bath now, getting dressed. I'm listening to Otis Redding's take on Sam Cooke's A change is gonna come. I know that it was written about the civil rights movement, but such is the genius of the song that the lyrics instantly connect with the thoughts running through my brain, the words snapping snugly into place like the final brick in a Lego house. I shut my eyes and inhale. Music and movement keep me going, don't let me falter.

The cloud of venom and worry that usually descends upon me at this point doesn't, and I leave the flat feeling blank. The tiredness is still there - the lack of sleep and chemicals that I flood my bloodstream with in order to make myself work are ever present, my faithful companions, with me always.

I walk to work and it gives me added time to reflect. Around me, the chavs are zooming about in their souped up motors, not doubt imagining that they're driving in the Dunlop British Touring Car race at Brands Hatch, or driving to the recording studio to record the next multi-platinum selling gangsta rap album. Not 50 Cent in LA maaaate, 25 Pence in Bransholme, swear down maaaate...

I have ten minutes to kill, so I head towards a phonebox and I ring people that I haven't spoke to in months, jabbering to them about shit like turning points and destiny, and after that I finally reach work.

So I'm at work, and my first priority is finding the manager-on-duty. I turns out it's the Penguin, y'know enemy of Batman. Think of Burgess Meredith in the sixties TV show rather than Danny DeVito in the Tim Burton film. I ask to speak to him, and we go into the office for a chat. He waddles over to his chair, and I can tell he's expecting some sort of question about wages or hours or something. 'Right,' he says shuffling in his chair, getting comfy. 'What's up then, Joe?' 'I want to resign,' I reply.

I can tell by his expression that I've taken him off guard. He wants to know why, of course, so I tell him. I tell him the truth, but not the entire truth. I tell him that I hardly sleep, I get in half-five in the morning and I sit up until eight or nine, waiting for the Sandman to show up.

I tell him that when I do finally sleep, I have to get up at half-twelve so I can go and see my son. I've been getting by on four or five hours sleep a day for the past year or so, I tell him, and now it's finally catching up with me. 'I feel like I'm going insane,' I say. I don't tell him about the other stuff. I don't mention the writing, the stolen hours spent in front of a screen or scribbling on a notepad. I don't say anything about the drink, the drugs or the sex that I need in order to motivate myself so I can write in the little time I get.

I learnt long ago never to tell anyone that I'm a writer. Most people cannot comprehend the fact that I spend hours - days even - churning out crap in the desperate hope that some of it will be good and worth reading.

Continued ...next page(4/4),

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