Taking the day off because you were scheduled to find out whether you were going to made redundant from your job the following day seemed like a good idea; I didn't want to sit and listen to the good people I work with mulling over the slightest clues for their careers to be saved or sacrificed, as we all have done for the past six months.
I should point out that because of the nature of the my closure I cannot put who my employer is or what I truly think about them and their methods - we've all read about people who lose their jobs because they have dared to speak their minds.
I booked the day with the thought that a day away would allow me to chill out, write and then return to the office the following day to find out my fate. Then at the last minute on Friday my employer, the Board, stated they would not be able to inform us of our fate until the Thursday, probably, if they could manage it.
So here I am, having taken a day off and intending to spend the morning writing. I took my partner to work, a treat to be away from the bus and allowing a lie in for us both.
I re-read my current assignment; made some minor adjustments while listening to the radio. I spent some time thinking about what it will be like if, on Thursday, I am redundant and become free to spend a year or two finishing my degree, writing and looking into re - training. It's scary at times but more worrying to think if I have enough discipline at 43 years of age to put the hours in.....if in fact the one thing I have secretly wanted to to with my life, write, will turn out to be possible, enjoyable and sustaining.
And then I made a coffee. A simple act of putting water into a kettle, placing it on the heat and adding the granules to the bottom of a cup.....a few minutes of idleness....then there is the kitchen towel. Standing, lurking there on the black top, like a little white soldier, to attention, ready, dimpled with eagerness......
The kettle boiled, the kitchen windows steamed up, the dustbin men arrived at the back of the house and emptied the the brown bin; the control freak in me knowing the difference in the sound of the smaller bin being thumped against the truck and emptied rather than the large, heavy general-waste bin. The worktop gleamed - I had moved aside our chopping boards, packed away the washing up, which we'd left to dry and polished the cutlery. I stood still; I had wiped down all the tops in our kitchen, switched on the radio - just to listen to, while the kettle boiled - while I tidied up - wouldn't take two minutes......
I turned off the gas; opened the windows and looked at the crumpled, kitchen towel in my hand, the bacterial spray standing on the now cleared draining board. I had been through two news bulletins; an hour on radio four isn't it?
I poured the water, stirred and left the kitchen to return to my office; trying not to think about the used towel dropped on the top alongside the spray. So I came here to confess to my displacement activity; something which due to my borderline OCD means I am prone to. I fear now the idea of redundancy, the chance to write only to end up with a few pages, a Blog of everyday musings and a clean, tidy and immaculate home......but little else.
Discipline is what I need. Could it be, after 23 years of full time office employment, that it has put me on the path of studying in my spare time to get my degree in Creative Writing and give me the structure to stick to a timetable to fullfil my dreams?
What is strange is that the closer the threat of freedom gets the more the ideas come. I have post-its of characters, one or two words of an idea, a phrase overheard or thought of, all scribbled down in between breaks from my computer or jotted down during a meeting....it's almost as if my creative brain is preparing me.
The only battle could be with the dreaded kitchen towel.
I am thinking about keeping the little soldier imprisoned in a cupboard - out of sight.....of course my partner is going to think I am mad!
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