What I'm really thinking: The newly redundant worker

What am I, the walking dead? Why will no one look me in the eye? They're embarrassed and I don't blame them. I'd be embarrassed, too, if I was passing a workmate in a corridor, thinking, "Sorry to hear you'll soon be picking up your P45, but at least if it's you, not me." If it wasn't me, I'd probably be thinking that, too. But it is me. The bosses brought in Downsizers R Us, who went through the productivity figures and called me to a meeting with their consultant. I wouldn't have minded so much if it had been George Clooney. People say, "You know you can appeal?" I have to bite my tongue to stop myself snarling back, "You don't say! Can I really? Why didn't I think of that?" Of course I appealed. I spent three days putting together proof: numbers. Dates. Emails. Spreadsheets. Irrefutable logic. The boss listened politely, then found in his own favour. The desire for vengeance churns in my stomach. I can see why bosses are careful to keep their home addresses secret from their employees. Not that I'd do anything, even if I did know where they lived. There's only one thing I want to happen to the people who sacked me. I want someone to sack them. My spies in our recession-hit former workplace tell me that the way things are going I may soon get my wish. I am ashamed of how happy this makes me. • Tell us what you're really thinking at [email protected]