When I was 9 I had a firm image of where exactly I wanted to be when I was 35. It was 1989, so you’ll have to forgive the terrible fashion choices, but I was working in London, in stilettos, with a perm (my mum never let me have a perm) and there were shoulder pads. Lots of shoulder pads. At home, I had John Nettles (from his Bergerac days), tending my two perfect children in a beautiful, double fronted, Victorian villa. Oh, and I could buy anything I wanted from the Kays catalogue.
Flash forward 16 years, I’m a secondary school teacher, I’m too fat to buy anything from the Kays catalogue if it existed now, I’ve never had a perm, I stopped wearing stilettos because I really hate that burny feeling you get after wearing them for 30 minutes, John Nettles no longer looks like he did in Bergerac and, while my boyfriend owns a lovely, double fronted, Victorian villa, I don’t live in it. Oh, and I’m being made redundant. And the redundancy part is quite important, because suddenly I’m going to have to make a massive change. I understand that people do this all the time, they have children, move abroad, climb mountains, lose important limbs, but for me, this whole redundancy thing has made me question exactly where my rent money comes from.
I need to make it clear, I wasn’t sad about being made redundant. I mean, I shed a tear at the idea that I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent and that the warm, cosy, secure blanket of permanent employment was being ripped off me in an angry and unwelcome wake up call, but I wasn’t sad. Instead I’m trying to embrace the opportunity. This blog is dedicated to all of those people doing the same thing and those who wish they could. I figure that if I’m going through this, then others are too. Every post will try to end with a moral, so here is today’s; if you want to do something, do it, don’t regret that you never did.