So let’s begin at the beginning.

I am a ‘graphic designer’. I do not know what that means, but at least it provides me with a label with which to identify myself when asked “And what do you do?”; it is a name that gives conceptual meaning to the messing about I do on a computer for five days out of seven. Without that label what would I be? Just a bloke with some computer skills? An artist masquerading as an employee? What other title could I possibly use to describe what I do? And herein lies the crux of the matter…

…For, as of the 18th December 2009, I will no longer officially be a ‘graphic designer’. I will be one of the latest statistical victims of this recent recession. That will make me what? Redundant? Unemployed? A victim? A sacrifice? A doley? A loser? Poorer, certainly. Lost, inevitably.

Already I can sense and feel the aura of change that comes from losing one’s direction, one’s grip on the lifeline of capitalist reality. Already I move with a rhythm that is out-of-sync with my familiar world. I can already feel the thin veil of my middle-class lifestyle evaporating to reveal the realities of the disenfranchised.

I had trouble finding an image to illustrate this post but settled on this of the Parliament Square peace camp because it is both a photograph of a movement and opinion with which I sympathise and yet am a distance from, an observer rather than a participator, and it is also one example of somebody that is struggling to battle against something that is state sanctioned.

I know it will sound condescending to admit to resisting checking out the cheap food section of Sainsbury and remaining seduced by the rich variety on offer at Waitrose. Patronising to find myself only glancing in passing at the Poundland but knowing I must save if I am to remain able to afford my Lush shower gel. But I have been there before and I can speak with experience.

I was an unemployed ex art student for a number of years, existing on the bread line, eating cheap meals, drinking cheap plonk, wearing the same clothes day in and day out. But then I found myself thrust into the world my poor self once sneered at and I worked my way up to a reasonable wage. With my pay packet came prizes: first a nice flat; then a newish car; then an increase in confidence; then a few dates; a membership into the world of art and culture; fine food and fine wine; a marriage, followed by a divorce; then more dates, more culture, more fine food and so on. It is fair to say I did a lot of growing-up and maturing in those twelve years. And slowly, over time, I woke to discover that I was finally where I had always wanted to be – among my own kind…

…White, home-owning, middle to upper middle class, nice sports car, exotic foreign girlfriend (sorry N) and living in west London; counting celebrities amongst my neighbours.

But I was always an imposter and this world that I had fallen into was simply a figment of my aspiration. This world was my false god and I was masquerading as one of the inhabitants. Because what am I now that the walls have fallen? What do I really have? What really matters? What is real and what is imaginary? What will I be as of the 18th December? What is certain is that I won’t be an employee…