It was Wednesday and I arrived at work with an unsettling feeling in my stomach. The previous week I had been very up and positive. Hell, I even thought winter and Christmas was a magical time of year. Even the viral, pre-Christmas hype infecting every retail outlet wasn’t affecting me.

I ignored adverts on TV, artificial jingles pumping out of shop stereos and the ever-present message that if you don’t max out your credit card you won’t be loved. I was blissfully oblivious to the less happy, because things were going great for me. Well, until that fateful Wednesday anyway.

Same old, same old
I couldn’t break out of my mood decline so decided to battle through the day in the hope that my festive sparkle would return soon. I was so focused on not thinking that I forgot about the big company meeting. A colleague tapped me on my shoulder and reminded me that there was a gathering in the company entertainment room.

‘Same old same old’ I thought; listen to some corporate weasel with a comb-over drone on about empowering the employees and getting them to work harder to make the business more money. That was the general feel of the meeting with various directors being encouraging, serious and earnest — and making several embarrassing jokes. One director opened up with, “I’m standing here with a bruised arse.” They waffled on, answered our questions and it looked like everything was going to be peachy.

“Just one more thing, before you go…. there is going to be some restructuring.” That multi-syllable word, “re-struc-tur-ing” rattled everyone instantly. If this scene was in The Simpsons a huge black cloud would have descended over our heads and a bolt of lightening would have flashed, revealing the Grim Reaper and Skeletor standing over their helpless minions. Yes, some of us were going to lose our jobs. Merry Christmas. Ho Ho Ho.

‘Mark, can you come for a quick chat?’
I went back to my desk and starting thinking that I had only been at the company two months and hadn’t done anything award-winning so far, but I had been doing fine, had worked hard and, I thought, been earning my pennies. I’d be okay, I hoped.

The door to our office swung open and the newly appointed HR guy sheepishly walked in. “Mark, can you come for a quick chat?” All eyes turned on me and I followed him into a little white room where a director was sitting cross-legged, looking at me with a pained expression.

“We’re sorry Mark, but it looks like you’re going to lose your job.” I was shocked. I stumbled out of the sterile room, went to my desk, put on my coat and promptly left the office. I needed to speak to someone. In these situations I usually call my parents for some long distance inspiration. I tried to buy a phone card, but all the shops were closed. I pleaded at the iron gate of a store that had just closed to let me in. They waved me away like some beggar looking for a cheap, high-alcohol can of beer.

Down into the underground I went. I felt physically ill and suppressed the urge to vomit on the tube. I was numbed and ended up sitting on a friend’s sofa, saying nothing, just mulling over what had happened and what was going to happen.

This complicated everything and my finances and work permit were now in serious jeopardy. I didn’t want to be awake so called a cab to take me home to my new flat. The cab reversed into a tree. Just a little reminder, in case I had forgotten, that this was a Very Bad Day. I had a fantastic night’s sleep staring at the ceiling listening to my new housemates and their girlfriends, whose rooms are on either side of mine, giggle playfully.

Phase Two: Swearing
I guess that was phase one: Shock. I don’t know why it hit me so hard, but it did. When I awoke, my eyes dark and sunken in, I decided that to get through this I would need to speed up the healing process. Anger would be the next phase so I started swearing.

I swore on the way to work and swore all the way home. Strangely, this seemed to help. The rug had been pulled out from under my feet, but I had landed on something soft and comforting. That night I lay in the bath and a feeling of liberation came over me. I was free again: young, unattached and ready to face this new challenge.

I sweated that week: speaking to dozens of recruitment agents, some helpful, some just plain evil. I dry-cleaned my suit, lined up interviews and marched forth with the army of other job hunters. In the interviews my confidence was high and I was saying all the right things. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. Two weeks later and I’d been offered three jobs. The job market in the UK is ripe. It’s almost the Promised Land again. Not as good as the dotcom days, but green and rich and fertile.

Joining the day walkers
I’ve accepted a job offer and start on the tenth of January. Yes, that’s a one month holiday in London with no real financial or job concerns. My redundancy payout covers me until the New Year. It scared me at first — what to do with my time. Strangely enough, all my friends have jobs and I can’t do too much daytime TV.

But walking around today I realized that I’ve got an amazing opportunity. I live close to the city centre, near the beating heart of London. Near galleries, coffee shops, pubs and museums; all feeding another side of London life - the day walkers.

I can go anywhere and do anything when I want to. I can sit in trendy cafes and read a newspaper with students and artists and perhaps talk to someone about the Dostoevsky book poking face first out of their pocket. I can walk around with nowhere to go, smugly observing the frenzied panic of Christmas shoppers and commuters.

I can join London Flash Mob and participate in an organised spur-of-the-moment gathering that may involve pillow-fighting outside Big Ben or turning up at a sofa store and admiring the furniture on display. Or I can play ‘Grand Theft Auto - San Andreas’ and smoke skunk. For now I am not one of them anymore — I am a day walker. I am free, free at last.

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