How losing a job is like having a birthday

It was 9.0 am on the morning of the first day of my exciting new life as a credit crunch statistic, and by golly there'd be no sitting around in my pants watching Trisha and, like, crying.

On Tuesday, I was made redundant as the Daily Telegraph's literary editor. On Wednesday, I was going to make some sourdough bread, and suck up to the commissioning editors of other newspapers so hard my cheeks would turn inside out. I sat at the kitchen table, fully dressed, and made a list. It said:

1. Bin bags
2. Lawyer
3. Tidy house
4. Commissioning eds
5. Gorkana
6. Accountant
7. Stuff from office?
8. Start blog

Next to "Start blog" I wrote: "hmmm". On the one hand, starting a blog about my miserable life could – at very long odds – yield a cult following, a book deal, and an eventual film starring Simon Pegg, sitting around in his pants watching Trisha and crying. On the other hand, it could take up all my time, earn no readers, and offer all the existential succour of howling into the echoing void of the internet and hearing back 'Ou-Boum!'

I crossed out "Start blog".

I had drunk no small quantity of cider, but I was feeling remarkably chipper

I was still feeling exhilarated. I hadn't been up this early for ages. And considering that the day before I had drunk no small quantity of cider, I was feeling remarkably chipper. Perhaps the cider was still working its way through my system.

What they don't tell you about being made redundant is that in every respect apart from the aspect of losing your job, future prospects, security and so forth, the experience is more or less identical to having a birthday.

You get the day off work. You feel entitled to go to the pub at opening time and stay there. And people, for the first time in ages, seem actively interested in what you're up to. Your phone rings constantly. Everyone buys you a drink. Your Facebook page – if you have one; an indulgence normally only available to those who have the hours of empty time in front of a computer that paid employment secures – fills up with the equivalent of what my old friend Tom Utley likes to call "floral tributes".

Colleagues laugh at your jokes. It would be rude not to. It’s a complete blast!

You refine the story of receiving your marching orders. It becomes funnier and funnier. "Hah! I kept the baldy twit waiting for hours!" you boast, untruthfully. "One door closes, the gutter opens!" you trill, slopping cider down your sleeve. "I'm being paid ONE MILLION POUNDS!" you say, also untruthfully, making a gesture with your little finger like Dr Evil in Austin Powers. Your colleagues, former colleagues, laugh at your jokes. It would be rude not to. It is a complete blast!

"Are you okay?" people ask. "Never better!" you shout, happily. "Pint? I've got two!"

Later, you get home and you set about planning what to do.

The cat makes a nuisance of itself. You feed the cat. You battle through the stale remains of your last effort at sourdough with the blunt breadknife, and put it in the toaster.

You are in a mood of unprecedented optimism. You close one eye, grab a pen in one fat fist, remove from your satchel the envelope in which your severance terms are set out and turn it over. You write, in block capitals, on the envelope:

1. WRITE LIST.

You feel great. A thought occurs to you. You write underneath:

2. Tomorrow, it will not be your birthday.