I left my original day job after 38 years and 5 weeks when my employer closed our office and left me (as a non-driver) with nowhere else I could get to without spending half the day getting to and from. By then the job had become a nightmare of self-justification and political-correctness gone mad and I couldn’t wait to go. The next morning, lyrics no in bed well after normal getting-up-time the feeling of relief that I never had to go back to the Fun Factory again was overwhelming!
I vowed that I wasn’t going to slob around the house all day, although I had (and still have) a fair few d-I-y projects to get on with, and Her Late Majesty’s DWP wanted me to justify my entitlement to Jobseekers’ Allowance by actually seeking a job (WHY....?), so I wound up doing a number of training courses of dubious long-term value, but found a part-time job in a local department store coffee shop for 6 months and a volunteer post with a local charity which led ultimately to full-time paid employment there; I‘m still there over 7 years later but maybe for not much longer as, guess what?, we’ve had a bad attack of box-ticking, self-justifying politically-correct capability reduction seasoned with a big dollop of management ineptitude.
I suppose that if I chuck the job, or it chucks me, I can get on with the d-I-y and to get some of my stash built before the Grim Reaper hauls me away to the manure tanks adjacent to the fire pits of Hades for eternity, but my state pension doesn’t kick in for another 29 months and my daughter’s petrol habit isn’t getting any better, so a further spell of low-paid employment beckons but I’ll see what I can get from it.