I quit my job. No, really. After two-anna-half years (a world record for me, whose longest stint otherwise has been one-anna-half years) I'm moving on.

To a part-time, 4 day a week job. Having done the math to ensure that the mortgage and lifestyle will mostly remain intact, I'm taking the step towards a more fulfilling job. (aka career change. No, I have no idea what form this will take, only that I'd like to do something else which gives me more passion) And if not a more fulfilling job, then less daily drek and more general actual fun.

Last day here is Aug 27. One week off, then start the new job at the start of September.

More news as it comes to hand. In the meanwhile, a general sense of guilt and wonder intermingle. (4 days a week? How indulgent! Surely that doesn't fit with the capitalistic goals of dying with the most money? Surely that means you're wimping out, you're weak, unable to handle the stress?) (Wow. Cool. 4 days a week. An extra sleep-in. A chance to get the house and the finances under control. To reorganise the garden, to play the piano, to spend a couple of hours trying out a new extravagant gourmet recipe.) Guilt. Wonder.