The art of the resignation

Does icing it on a cake make it any easier?

Just over 5 weeks ago I commuted to work feeling like a nervous wreck. I began my journey with sweaty palms which gradually worsened as I neared my destination...to the point where I nearly lost grip of the handrail and sprawled to the floor of the tube carriage.

Having spent the entire duration of my commute psyching myself up, I arrived at the office shaking like a leaf. In fact, I could easily have been mistaken for a Parkinson's sufferer as I tried to get my key into the lock. As if this wasn't bad enough, I had that horrendous dull ache in my stomach which only ever seems to rear its ugly head when I'm a bag of nerves.

The reason for my panic? The freshly-printed letter sitting guiltily in my handbag. I'd finally decided to quit my job and concentrate all my efforts on my quest for journalistic fame. All I needed to do was leap over that final dreaded obstacle: the small matter of my resignation. 

Being a person who avoids confrontation like the plague, handing in my notice is my idea of a nightmare. Even after the deed has been done it's impossible to relax for the remainder of the notice period. What if the boss didn't take it well? What if my colleagues treat me differently? What, (and this was my worst fear) if I'm relegated to office skivvy? It's a total minefield. 

No matter how many times I planned the scenario in my head, I realised there is just no good way to tell your boss you no longer want to work for their company. Whatever the reason, it's out in the open that you've been secretly planning to leave for God knows how long and they're not going to be best pleased.


Suddenly my panicky haze cleared and I remembered the best lesson I've ever learned in life. Never burn your bridges. That is the true art of the resignation. Flattery is still the best way to an egotistical man's heart, so of course I used it in abundance. And any grievances I felt towards my company went unmentioned as, rather terrifyingly, I'll never know if I'll ever encounter that boss again.


Thankfully, it all went quite well. He seemed relieved (and, I noticed, ever-so-slightly smug) that I hadn't been poached by a hateful competitor. In fact, the company's only concern about my departure seemed to be the placement I'd landed at The Sun newspaper. Naturally they worried they'd be seeing a little too much of me on page three.

Ah well, I guess now is the time to start building up my spray tan and booking my boob job. I'll always need a backup plan if this journalism malarky doesn't work out...