And so it has come to pass. I went to work this morning and was called in to the boardroom (after I had made everyone cups of coffee, natch).
Both bosses and little old me. I was told my job was no longer tenable and it was for my own good that I should leave. Bear with me on this one.
I was sacked for two reasons:
First, my job is not viable any more. Thanks largely to being stealthily stripped of my duties over the last year, so I agree with them on that point. Second, my ‘health problems’ mean I can no longer work at the office. What if I were to trip? What if I am too tired one day?
I know this is highly illegal. I know I should fight. And I did, kind of. I asked to be allowed to stay for two months, until I found another job and to see me over Christmas. They will let me know their decision in a day or so. One boss seemed stunned that I couldn’t just go ‘straight onto benefits’ and even suggested the time I would now have on my hands would be a positive thing for me. A bit of space. He obviously lives in Daily Mail world where all disabled people on benefits sit back and coin it in.
I pointed out several times that I should have been offered the chance to bring a representative with me, especially as they are sacking me primarily on grounds of health and they had obviously had the whole weekend to construct a dismissal plan. Gratifyingly, this seemed to alarm them, but it’s cold comfort.
I am still waiting to hear back from my last job interview – hoping to get lucky. But for now, I’m going to take my big box of tissues, a family-sized bar of chocolate and a bottle of red wine, sit on the sofa and cry my eyes out.
(if this is your first visit to my blog – check out ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ post from last week – it’ll explain the background to this sorry tale).