Today I handed in my notice for my job and my house. After almost seven years I will be leaving Nottingham; I’m reflecting now because when the time comes to actually move I do not expect to have the time for it. I have known I was leaving for a few months but it was only in the past week that the knowing solidified into certainty and from there the necessity of giving my employer a final date. There’s a lot I could say, less that I could and little that I will.
I came to Nottingham to attend Nottingham Trent University to read English with Creative Writing. I am glad I went to University but I didn’t make the most of it which is something I will probably regret a good while yet. I went for the idea of an education for education’s sake and got precisely what I asked for in most regards. The English section I loved, the Creative Writing I grew to loathe. There is a cold brutality to a cultural enclave for those who without its barriers; the disparity between the attitudes of the two – the elite Creative Writing staff alongside the more freewheeling theorists – remains with me. Still, for Mahendra there was Tim. If anyone were to follow in my footsteps, a dubious route I would advise, to paraphrase I would advise to take the Literature classes, leave the writing workshops.
I collected my degree and went on to work. It was 2010, Britain was in the throes of economic crisis and I took the first job that was offered me. I never intended to stay at the Nottingham Collections Centre past Christmas; nearly four years later I retain much the same opinion of RBS as I did going in, but nuanced by my affection for the people I have worked with. It’s one of the characteristics, telling in my opinion, that there are strict legal limits on publishing opinion about your employer. There’s no frank tell-all to be hand, RBS is what it appears to be, a giant falling in slow motion.
The house I now live in is the sixth I have had in Nottingham and it holds no attachment for me. I’m sure my neighbour, who I can soundly denounce, will be glad for my leaving or will be for at least as long as it takes someone else to make breakfast in the kitchen. A strange and unlikeable person whose presence nonetheless lent texture to living here.
Nottingham has been as impassive to me as I to it. All surfaces, there is nothing here that I came to love beyond a small number of people who followed me, and a small number who found me here. On July 25 I will give over my pass, on 1 August I will hand in my key; I will be gone and hopeful not to return.