Resting, retiring or just wasting time?

You will have noticed that the days since my last blog entry have become weeks. When the weeks became months, I thought it best to stop the rot before the months turned into years.

It certainly beats job hunting. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d be better off putting my job applications into bottles and throwing them into the sea, than emailing recruitment consultancies. The responses would be pretty similar to the ones I’m getting at the moment.

Quiz question: how many replies did Sting get to his message in a bottle?

Answer at the end of the blog.

Maybe, seeing as the festive season is approaching, I should write a letter to Santa, outlining my relevant experience to date, projects managed, blue chip companies worked at, and daily rate expectations.

Then I’d set fire to it and throw it up the chimney, just like I used to do when I was a five year old back in the sepia coloured days of my Manchester childhood.

The only real flaw that I can see in this approach, in all honesty, is the fact that I don’t have a chimney. I think it would make a bit of a mess of the central heating.

“Dear Santa. I am a highly motivated and commercially aware Prince2 accredited project management professional, with a proven track record of digging other people’s tragically misguided projects out of the mire, and getting them back on track, whilst at the same time using my gift for concealing the massive budget overspends I’ve inherited, behind a blinding set of spreadsheets which conclusively prove that black is indeed, white. Please send me a job for Christmas.

PS I’ve also got my eye on the new Keith Richards’ autobiography, and maybe a couple of CDs as stocking fillers. Regards, Chris”

In the meantime, I had a very pleasant weekend in Bournemouth with Diane and Malcolm, a couple of friends from the village, who have decided to live down there. On Saturday we took a stroll along the beach, from Alum Chine to Sandbanks and back. Sandbanks is at the end of a short spit of land, with magnificent views of Poole Harbour, and Brownsea Island in particular. Diane told us that Sandbanks had some of the most expensive property in the country, and was indeed, if proof were needed, the home of Harry Redknapp.

I nodded sagely, whilst wondering to myself if I should know who Harry Redknapp was, and at what point in his life – presumably when he became a millionaire – did his (or his neighbours’) sense of taste and elegance abandon him. Doric columns and Ponderosa style mansions seem to define the self made millionaire, but are not my sort of thing.

In the evening we had dinner at The Coffee Club, a charming little restaurant on the high street in Westbourne. I’d certainly recommend the dish that I had, if only I could remember what it was. My memory lapse probably had something to do with the several bottles of house red which accompanied the meal.

ANSWER TO THE QUIZ QUESTION: More than I’ve had responses to my job applications.