When I left my last job, my last day was of course full of all the sort of stuff that happens at a job on the last day. The last supper (well, okay, the last lunch) where everyone turns up to stuff their faces. (Except the Melways-disadvantaged, who somehow managed to misread perfectly clear directions and head for the entirely wrong end of Bourke Street).

And let’s not forget the big card. And the way I kept accidentally stumbling upon people trying to secretively sign it. Guys, if you’re reading, don’t worry — after two years of watching other people leaving, I know the office routine pretty well now. But none of the comments in the card said “Good Riddance.” Well, only one, and I don’t think he meant it. And I’m quite sure that he was joking about dancing on my grave. Next week.

Nothing is going to make leaving after two years easy. Not the excitement of a new job, not the anticipation of what kind of tie I’ll be given as a going away present. And certainly not the laborious task of clearing out all my email onto disk. And as for the amount of crap that had accumulated on my desk... But I did it. And I showed I meant it. I showed I was leaving. And they all knew it. Everyone knew I was really leaving when I made that final gesture of departure.

And so, after the weekend has passed, I trotted off to my new job. A new commute to master, new role to get into, and new people to meet. New phone numbers to remember. New building security to try and circumvent. New Coke machines to plunder. New LAN people to frustrate.

But one thing irritates me. All that weekend, I never had a chance to genuinely answer someone who asked about what I do for a living. I never got to say “well, I’m between jobs at the moment...”