I'm in my fourth week of leaving my job - wanted to get out before I had to say I'd worked there for an entire decade.
Nine years and eleven months sounds so much better.
So far the count of desperate emails pleading for me to return at a gratuitously high daily rate stands at zero.
My departure did have one side effect I never counted on though - the cleaners have been missing me.
They first thought I was on holiday. Then they thought I'd just been keeping my desk really tidy.
It was then that my friend Phil, fearful of causing hysteria which might lead to a massive coronary and no one to clean the mess, broke the news to them gently.
Never has so much wailing and gnashing of teeth been concentrated into two tiny letters.
"Oh," the cleaner said.
And then she added, "I'll take away his bin then."
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