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Yeah, and a Merry Fucking Christmas to You, Too.

So, yeah. I'm home a bit early today. Call it a protest against the management of the firm I'm resigning from.

See, a couple of weeks ago, my new manager holds his first department meeting. At the end, he talks about plans for Christmas Eve, and says that he'd like to organise a Christmas lunch. However, the company won't chip in; we have to fund it ourselves. Afterwards, we can all rack off early.

Now, I figure this is the closest thing we're going to get to a Christmas party this year. We had one last year, but the company Social Club funded that, mostly on staff donations. The Social Club hasn't had too much luck this year, and there's been no word from them. There have also been stories of Christmas parties over the last couple of years, being funded entirely on the empolyees' dime, getting canned by management.

So just after I have lunch, one of the guys from another department pops around to our area. It seems he couldn't get in touch with half his team, who work in North Sydney, via regular channels - and when he finally got in touch with one of them, he found out that all of North Sydney and the City offices, plus the Account team for our largest client, had all been invited by the new head of Asia Pacific South to a Christmas party at the Domain from lunchtime onward. Not one person at the Burwood campus - four buildings' worth of people - had been invited. I managed to confirm his story, thanks to a colleague in one of the city offices.

I suddenly thought, "I'm buggered if I'm sticking around here for the rest of the day."

In the middle of redundancies as jobs are outsourced to Malaysia and record-low morale, upper management pulls a stunt like this. From my perspective, it's just the latest in a series of events that have convinced me that my decision to take Vickie and I back to Cairns was correct.

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