The Truth About Redundancy

So. You’ve been made redundant.

re·dun·dantAdjective/riˈdəndənt/

1. No longer needed or useful; superfluous.

2. (of words or data) Able to be omitted without loss of meaning or function.

Surely, you can imagine the scene if not. Redundancy is one of the most spine chillingly, chin wobblingly, soul crumbling things to happen to you. Especially if you love your job. But, soon, maybe not now, maybe once you've sorted your leaving date, redundancy payments and your desk out, you get a feeling of euphoria. Like a runner's high, redundancy can open new doors. You use your mobile. You talk to people. Some are awful and insist you move to London, and some are lovely. You start to think about your job. What did you like? Do you want the same thing, recruiters ask. You have to do some soul searching. Quickly. And if you're lucky, your company will let you get some time off to regroup. To think. And to be angry. To be sad. To cry with your cat, or your spouse, and demand they make you dinner. (The spouse, not the cat.)

If you have been made redundant and are still in the Pit Of Doom (minimum stay: 2 nights) or if you've never been made redundant- either way, this will explain the feeling. Whatever you're position, this could just be the best thing that ever happened.)

The Process Of Being Made Redundant

You get the big announcement. The big boss comes down from his ivory tower with a scroll (email) and announces cuts – the culprit, the global economy.

A sombre mood sweeps the sales floor. You look down, or make tight smiles at your neighbor, all the same eyeing them up as a competitor for your job.

Some people make jokes like ‘Well I’d better get my coat!” others simply state “It’s me.” You try to get on with work, but you feel unsteady. You check your CV. Or decide to make one.

Then the hand lands on your shoulder. You're eating your lunch and looking at Femail. You look up.

Your blood runs cold. It's your line manager. The one who only talks to you at Christmas parties and staff nights out. He asks you, with a friendly smile, to come to hid room. This room is only ever used for bad news or private phone calls. It smells damp and unused.

You walk to the room, behind your manager and you both make light chit chat. He might laugh and say something about ‘Oooh it’s nearly Friday.’ Rubbing his hands with glee, and you laugh a little too loud. But laughter won’t save you now.

You go in. He talks about the global economy and you brace yourself.

It’s you.

It’s not you, it’s your job. They just don’t want what you do. Don't take this personally, they say.

“But we’re so busy…We asked for more staff?” you protest, but it falls on deaf ears.

You walk out the room with damp eyes and swear words on repeat in your head.

You sit at your desk and think – It’s okay. It’ll be okay. They will change their mind. Hey what about ‘No work Noddy’ in the corner? Why didn’t they pick him?

And then come the letters. They talk about the global economy. That day you had off sick, divided between you, means your attendance isn’t a 5/5 as you thought – but a below average 2 out of 5. Oh. You start getting angry. Passively. Hey, you think, how come they didn’t know they were in trouble. They opened new stores… But you keep quiet. You don’t say anything. You’re in the habit of smiling when sad. Being optimistic when others are crying in the toilets.

You talk and laugh with your collegues, and after work you leave, jovial, and cry in your car and call your mum.

She says you're better than them. That you have a great mind. A talent. You were plodding there, she says- you need to do what you love.

Snuffling, you agree. You go to the gym. You do boxing. You hurt your wrist.

You go home and drink a bottle of rose and get happy. Then you get sad. Then you get sleepy.

You have the day off to ‘refresh’ say management, so you alternate between madly applying for things, considering if you could be an admin manager or a sales exec in Harlow, or if you can ever get the peace you just had.

The flickers of hope are there, even in the gloom. You could go train dolphins! You remember you didn't do a science A-level and you slump back down.

You spend your lunch watching half tonne teen and eating choc ices. You think about work, all by accident. You even dream in databases, daydream in documents.

People, text, Facebook, consolations come in thick and fast.

You’ve never been so popular!

And then, it hits you.

You are better than this. Than them.

You look at the job boards. 86 new jobs?

Just between 8 and 9am?

The global economy doesn't seem so bad.

So you go back to work with a spring in your step. You’re happy. You make cakes. You sort out your stuff. And you’re nicer. And positive, and just jollier.

Because you’re free.

You’re possibilities are endless.

Redundancy might just be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Elaine