“Where do you see yourself in 5 years?”
and why this is the most inane question I’ve ever been asked, and hope to never be asked again.
and why this is the most inane question I’ve ever been asked, and why I dearly hope to never be asked it ever again.
During the past few days I have had the unpleasant occasion to be asked not once, but twice, the above vacuous and inane question. There was almost a third time too but armed with a thousand yard death stare and a Hollywood eyeroll of the very finest, I managed the avoid collecting the match ball for the hat-trick on this occasion. But before we get to some of the possible answers to this grating question, let’s time travel in the reverse direction and ask ourselves where we were five years ago? I was sitting on the above bench and if you’re neither a friend, a family member or a previous reader of my blogs I’ll narcissistically announce again that this is in fact known as “Stephen’s Bench” and it’s located opposite the oldest iron bridge in the world and although the picture above does not do the grand old lady justice, having visited her recently, I can confirm she’s looking mighty fine for her age and as magnificent as she always has. Five years ago, and for the three years previous to this, I could be found on this very bench most days, playing pretend tourist guide, loving meeting the vast array of different people from around the world and drinking in the smiles, hugs, jokes and memories that only the mystique of Ironbridge can provide. Being a resident also meant I often got to enjoy the grand old lady all by myself and whilst Ironbridge is picture perfect during the daytime, words cannot do justice to the ethereal and otherworldly quality this place has under a clear sky and the fullest of moons. Place yourself at the corner of the viewing platform in the image above facing the bridge, and picture the fluttering of the occasional bat, the incessant hooting of owls in the surrounding trees, the tolling of the bells from the church high upon the hill and the spotlight lighting up this treasure from a bygone age. You may picture yourself in a Tim Burton film or a moody short scene from Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy or perhaps a black and white classic from yesteryear.
Or simply picture yourself as a lucky old soul on yet another date with the grand old lady of Ironbridge and almost completely and entirely alone. Except for the bats and the owls, obviously.
Five years ago, I was that lucky old soul.
If you had asked me in 2016 where I saw myself in five years time I’d be horrified if I was being asked the same blooming question now, but here we are. Five years later I’ve bid a farewell to the owls and the bats, managed to escape the Alcatraz of yet another toxic relationship with a dreadful human being and by quirk of coincidental fortune and the love of a Mother for her children, I’ve gone from sleeping in a rental car for a couple of weeks to having a fairly stable home. I’ve worked hard at being a better Father (though I was dreadful during the Lockdown Summer of 2020), I’ve seen my football club reclaim past glories, winning everything imaginable and for a short time believing that Bill Shankly’s oft quote may have to come true after all. I’ve also seen my baseball team go from nowhere men to perennial World Series losers to finally lifting the crown and the albatross from around their collective necks. I’ve tried being a better friend but I’m a difficult friend to be a friend with, so that’s an on going project, as is my relationship with my son’s Mother to whom no-one can hold a candle to. It’s to my eternal shame that I was so reckless and thoughtless to throw away the damn matches in the first place.
I also started my own small business and became self employed for the first time, a thought I would never have dreamed of having sitting on my bench in Ironbridge five years ago. Alas, I also never dreamed I’d have to close it three years in due to the lockdown. Having an underlying health condition I was “advised” by the UK Government (along with millions of others) to stay home but I could’ve continued but weighing risks versus rewards and the undeniable fact that driving around a ghost town wasn’t going to be a whole lot of fun I had no real alternative. I also never dreamed five years ago I’d be a taxi driver or any time in my life come to that, but self motivated and determined I worked my backside off and in all honesty just about broke even. Now, when I say “worked” I didn’t really. Driving a taxi is not work. It’s a vocation. It’s a life. It also quickly becomes your social life (due to the incredibly long hours) and it also afforded me the chance to be independent, the master of my own ship, a huge degree of autonomy and control and most important of all, I could finally be me. No mask. No pretence. Genuinely, authentically me. I also escaped (for the most part) my own problems and anxieties and listened to those of my passengers and their life stories, jokes, observations and views on life. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m a quiet, shy, unassuming soul but, ever the contrarian, I also demand the spotlight of the stage and the attention of everyone. Taxi driving can afford you this quixotic luxury if you’re lucky. Fortune plays a huge role in the taxi game, with passengers either wanting quiet and peace as they travel from A to B or they want a talkative comedian who’ll entertain them for their five pieces of silver. For the most part, I got lucky. I’ve also got the tallest of tall tales to tell, but let’s save them for another day.
We have a question to answer.
I genuinely resented being asked *that* question and perhaps you’ll spot the antipathy I have for this as I wrap up this brief (for me) ramble. I’m approaching my fiftieth year on this rock we all share as we spin through the eternity of a universe we couldn’t possibly fathom if you gave us all a calculator, a set of encyclopaedias, a Rubik's Cube, a compass, a T-Square and a thousand years worth of magical mushrooms. “Who cares?” would be my standard answer, but I didn’t give that barbed reply on either of the two occasions I was asked it, but they say the eyes don’t lie, and my beautiful brown ones no doubt gave me away. They usually do. So I replied with one or more of the following and you, dear reader, can be the judge:
(1) “If I’m still around in five years, may my God help me”.
(2) “Next five years? I have no idea what I’m doing in the next five minutes, mate!”
(3) “Next five years? Are you f****** kidding me? I’m not 21 years of age for crying out loud!”
(4) “I cannot, for the life of me, believe you’ve asked me this inane question”.
(5) “I see myself lazing on a beach with a beautiful lady, a pack of smokes, a cold drink and an inexhaustible supply of books. I’ll never live long enough to read all the books I wish to and I hope this answers your question”.
Now, the lovely people at my local job centre don’t take too kindly to any or all of the above answers, which kind of put us all in a bind. But oh how we laughed! And when the laughter died down………..questions arose as to the state of my CV and the surreal merry-go-round began to spin a little faster again in my head and the music being played continued to be badly out of tune.
A lot’s happened in five years and here I am losing the will to live with inane questions from people who mean well and other similarly well meaning people who now wish to discuss the contents of my CV. Which, at nearly 50 years of age is exactly how I wish to be spending my precious time here on planet earth. Awesome. Yes, let’s talk about how we can “enhance”, “tweak”, “re-fresh” and make my CV appear more “appealing” to prospective employers.
Yes, let’s. Sounds awesome. Shall we play some music too?
My CV is averagely impressive. I have a near 20 year successful corporate career listed and the recent foray into 3 years of self employment. The thing is, in 2016 I updated my CV with said self employment, saved it to my hard drive and I took a vow to never look at the damn thing ever again. I even printed a copy, ripped it to shreds and ceremoniously burnt it. I had my own business (kind of), was self employed and free from any vacuous questions about where I saw myself in five years and how was my CV shaping up? Now I’m talking with over caffeinated people half my age, bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm after eating far too much chocolate, about a CV that was burnt in a ceremony, a ceremony for the dead man the CV hasn’t represented for over a generation.
Following my most recent trip to the job centre (and the signs that greet you of “dress smart for your interview” and “interview tips and guidance”) and *that* question and the possible answers I may or may not have given, I promised myself beforehand of a trip to Ironbridge as I knew I’d be in need of cheering up. “Stephen’s Bench” is still there, the town itself will never change (and nor should it. Ever) and although set against more darkened skies this time, the grand old lady still sparkled as she always does. The only difference on this occasion was me. I took up residence on my bench, said hello to the old lady (I always ask how she’s doing as I’m well, a bit of a weirdo) and with very few people around, I told her my tale of woe. She listened intently as she always does but more importantly, she didn’t ask me any questions.
I’d had quite enough questions for one day.
