silverrevolver

Sometimes I look around and feel that I am in a prison, stuck in this world of economics and work. It's mad, completely mad. No country where on can escape it, no career that exists without it -- no place for a man to just be a man.

Something has been happening over the last few weeks, aside from failure (being sacked, that's never happened before, but there's a reason). I am working with all these wonderful products, game birds, local produce, pumpkins bigger than your head, the kind of product chefs dream working with. I am doing this job with it's massive 12 hour working day (and at the end of it all still feeling in the shit), and it should be what ?I love. I think it came to me when I was breaking down hares a week ago today, bloody, smelly animals (that taste wonderful, but raw are quite disgusting resembling more a small deer than a rabbit) and I felt nothing, no excitement, nor the pride that usually comes with cooking a beautiful product. Since then my performance has dropped off and it became a prison a 9am-11pm job with only a small room with blank walls and no heat to go back to.

I'm reminded of a resolution I made to myself 3 years ago, one that I apperently have forgotton. No restaurant is worth selling your soul for (by soul I meaning giving up everything else that matters). The good jobs that I've had have complimented my life, not been the end all and be all. All this brings me to the point I've been driving at for these long two paragraphs: I DON'T THINK I WANT TO BE A CHEF ANYMORE.

Especially not in Europe.

After being sacked, I packed up my things walked down the steps and out the door, backpack on my shoulders knife case in my right hand, computer bag on the left and had I been able I would have ran and ran. It seems I'm always running.

So now, back home in Birmingham I am wondering what the hell to do next. I need a job, and kitchen work for the time being is the only way to make a decent salary. Maybe a low responsability position -- but this is only a short term solution. I've been feeling my dormant writter waking up and streching his arms, wondering what the hell he missed. I would like to write, maybe feelance (for a music magazine ideally, it's something I know) but I have no idea how to go about it, but I'm reasonably sure it will take at least a year to get that going, even in a small way.

Thanks to you (yes you, love) for being so patient and understanding. I know what this means for us and our plans. I'll make good somehow.

Je besion d'aider....



Also, whoever re-activated my account, thank you so much. Tell me who you are, so I can thank you properly...