It pays to get down on your knees and beg

I've been made redundant three times in my life. Never a nice thing. First time it happened at an ad agency, me and my team mate knew it was on the cards for us. But we kept on going in to work. Gritting our teeth. Brassing it out.
First they stopped giving us briefs (our work). Then they took away our office and put a new team in there.
We had to sit on a desk in the 'video library' (a corridor with shelves in it).
We still dutifully kept going in. Papering the (video cassette) walls with ads. A bit ashamed at how far we had fallen from grace. But we had to keep going in, even though we knew we were a lost cause. No one could look us in the eye. No one came in to ask about our work, or give us deadlines.
We were being cut out of the picture.
Invisibilized.
That's one of the worst things about the 'R' word; people's embarrassment and wish that you would 'just go away quietly.'
The Creative Director had lost faith in us. He kept pulling everything we did into pieces. Meaningless pieces. Confusion. Mis-direction.
Worse. We had lost faith in ourselves.
After months and weeks of daily pain and humiliation, the CD came down (nervous; quite nice man really; dead now -- died in a strange way, using self-asphyxiation sex technique that went wrong .. anyway, I digress); he stood in our 'doorway' (video library corridor entrance) and mumbled shamefacedly, "Let's call this your last week then."
I don't know what possessed me. But I decided to make a joke out of the horrible, drawn-out situation we'd been putting ourselves through. I threw my head into my hands and screeched "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Then I play-actingly sobbed, "No, No Nooo", wretchedly and pathetically. I started rambling, using an over-acting cockney kid voice, "But I got bills to pay Mister -- a cat to feed and fings ... " I think I got down on my knees, but i definitely implored him with open arms and begged him for mercy. I remember saying (in my fake cockney 'Dodger' voice) "Avent we always done our best for you? We've worked our fingers to the bone for you -- we 'ave!!" And i showed him my fingers (which were bony back then).
He walked backwards out of the room.
Me and D (my partner) looked at each other, smirked and sighed heavily as we began to pack up our bits and pieces. 5 minutes later, Mr CD-Shameface hovers back around our 'doorway'.
"OK OK" he says. "I've got you another 2 weeks."
Me and D didn't know whether to laugh with relief of 2 weeks more in warm, safe agency environment ... or cry with the knowledge of dragging ourselves through more continued invisibilized torture.
Maybe I should have changed careers and gone to RADA?