I’ve received two interpretations of my pilgrimage. First is Mick from Canberra who thinks the whole event can be summed up as: "God gets His own Back on Unrepentant Atheist". Or perhaps "God 1, Harder 0".

Next is my housemate from Melbourne, Matt, who has broadened the scope of the request to sledge the entire three years I spent in Melbourne. With these instincts for the pay-out, you can see why Matt and I got along. Safe in his new job, Matt also seems to be venting about our illustrious and fine but mostly former employer. Take it away, Matt:

Ooooh lights.

This is a three dimensional juxstaposition of an antithesis of the bible story in which Peter denies Jesus three times before the cock crows, against your personal struggle along Maslow’s hierarchy of needs towards self actualisation, against your self loathing justifications for having remained an employee of pwc, err, Monday, err whatever, for tooo god damn long. (There can be little question that god is damning you for this.)

And the fact that you never got to root your mother.

Let us deal with the pilgrimage first. Contrary to Peter’s effort, you actually proclaimed your faith by continuing along the pilgrimage despite loss of direction on three instances. This explains why there was no need for the cock to crow. I can only hypothesise that somewhere close by, there was indeed a cock, but its carefully considered silence understandably failed to elicit the cognitive trigger necessary for you to have perceived its significance.

Enter your professional career. The first instance of you being at a loss was undoubtedly Tampa. It is at this point that you first began to regret, nay, resent the enterprise as a whole - along with 90% of its constituent parts. But we digress. The second instance conspiring to loss of soul was Norwich. You undertake the role of project bitch. By this time you have fulfilled your survival needs, being the recipient of a roof over you head for as long as you care to sit at your desk and takeaway food at your beckon call. Your focus turns to social needs, and your inner emptiness combined with dosed schlackings by project management embitter your enterprise to you further. You cut a deal with the devil (oddly enough to buy your soul back), get off Norwich, try and get back on track, but ironically find yourself on Career Point. This is the last - and most complete - loss. The eloquent, poetic irony is that Career Point is un-overstatably pointless to your (anyone’s) career and it is this that finally illuminates your only course of action. Bail. Thus signifying your total exhaustion.

I must confess I know not what the nettle is doing in there? Was Jung a horticulturalist? Can someone advise?