I start to cry.
Unthinkable, mortifyingly embarrassing, but there it is. I am upset.
I am planning to leave, and he knows it now. We have discussed the whys and the hows and the "what ifs" and we are both feeling a little emotionally drained.
And as the tears start to spill over, I am suddenly struck by the bemusing side of it all: give or take a few words, any nonplussed eavesdropper would think we were talking marital break-up, not career move.
"There have been things wrong here from the start..." I proffer at one point.
"Yes, I know, but no-one's perfect!" he counters, rather needily.
"You've tried to stifle me!" I protest.
"No, no, that's unfair. Look, we've been through some hard times. Times are hard now!"
Then, when the accusations have reached a certain pitch, the tone softens, and we are both riddled with regrets.
"It's not your fault, it's not my fault," I soothe, "I've changed, that's all. My aspirations have changed."
"I know that. Don't forget, I know you so well, Shirley. It's been seven years..."
"I just feel it's time to move on. There's nothing you can really say or do to make me stay. It's my decision."
"And I respect that. I'll do everything possible to help you."
And lastly, the ultimate cliché: the "we'll always be friends" line.
"I hope we'll still a lot of each other, even after you move on..."
"Oh, of course! I hope so too."
Yes, it was funny, and sad, too.
I'm not leaving tomorrow, but the cards are on the table, and I have a few potential options.
It's been one of those cases in which months of reflection have resulted in a single, clear and obvious choice: I need a new job (within the Firm, all being well).
And what I don't mention to my boss, as I sniff and wipe my nose, is that Something had to change. I got to the point in my life where, well, to put it bluntly, it was "them or me."
Personal fulfilment: the starting block from which relaxed Mum and loving Wife can sprint off, each morning, when the gun fires...
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