Open wide and say AAAAARRRGGGHHH

The first time it happened I thought it was a reaction from going from a glimpse of how I wanted my life to be to the reality of how it is. The second time it happened it could just about have been put down to a bad day. Today it happened for a third time. I can no longer ignore it.

I am happier having root canal surgery than being at work.

I know it's a terrible thing to say in a recession, and yes, I realise that I'm lucky to have a job at all, but ossification of the soul is setting in and I want to get out before it's too late. Life is finite and some lives are more finite than others. It's a truism that no-one has ever laid on their deathbed and wished they'd spent more time at work. I suspect there's a trick to it, knowing when to jump. I've done a fair amount of weighing up the pros and cons of resigning. It's not as if I'm employable anywhere else so my options are 1) grit my teeth (those that aren't held together by amalgam) and die slowly five days a week, or 2) politely hand in my notice and hope that the shock of having no income inspires me to find meaningful work PDQ. My landlady would prefer I chose the former option, although she sees why the latter appeals.

A friend has suggested I try for a sabbatical but I don't think that's fair on my colleagues, even if it were remotely possible that the firm would allow it. (Sabbaticals are for management. We minions must drag ourselves in every day unless certified clinically dead by three different doctors.) Last year someone went on unpaid leave for personal reasons and there was some ill feeling among those left to carry the workload. I dreamt of her the other day. I hope she's happier and healthier than she appeared to me then.

So no sabbatical. What other options are there, apart from undergoing a lobotomy? I could talk to the management, but I've tried that and was met with concerned incomprehension. With a company ethos that everyone must be happy at all times and dissenters will be disciplined, the safety valve of griping in the staff room has been closed off. Yes, we still do it in hushed whispers in corners, but it gets us nowhere and I find it easier to be there in body only while my mind is off doing something more interesting. So far only one colleague has noticed that my standard reply to 'how are you?' is 'hello, how are you?'

What I would really like is a year out. Lots of people have them. No-one would be surprised if I announced I was taking a year off to have a baby. No, let me rephrase that. No-one, apart from anyone who knows me, would be surprised if I announced I was taking a year off to have a baby. I'm not going to have a baby. I don't want one. It would be too much like being John Hurt in Alien. But why should I be penalised for wanting to live on through books and scripts than through passing on my DNA? Off the top of my head I can think of lots of books that are more worthwhile than some people I could mention. There's maternity leave and paternity leave. Why not literary leave?

Just think: six months to a year away from the workplace and several shiny new (fictional) people at the end of it. And everyone could share in that simply by reading my book.

Although some might prefer root canal surgery.