Downtime: 2013 365 Challenge #299

I get my downtime when I’m asleep

One of the things I’ve discovered through doing the daily blog challenge is the psychological and physical effect of having no downtime. For probably 98% of the 299 days of blogging and writing this year, I have put the children to bed at 8pm, gone downstairs, cooked dinner, eaten it while catching up on social media and blog comments, then opened my laptop.

At some point between that point and 11am the following morning, between normal household duties – dog walking, dishwasher stacking, cooking, ironing, child hugging, sleeping – I find the time and energy to write my 1000-1500 words.

Sometimes, like today, they were written in a supermarket café with free WiFi while placating a whining small child with crayons and cookies. Sometimes, like now, I stand at the computer at 11.38 p.m, having just been woken up from a three-hour sofa doze by hubbie going to bed. On very rare and wonderful days I’ve actually written some of it in the day time and I only have to format the post, add photos and tags and publish. Those are good days.

I’m not saying this for sympathy or to have a moan. Well, maybe a little bit. 😉 I’m saying it because a) it’s 11.40pm and I have to think of something to waffle on about and b) I’ve realised that the lack of downtime is starting to send me slightly doolally. It isn’t the work: I don’t mind working hard. Plus, I get whole chunks of my day when I’m sat cuddling a child on the sofa, or walking the dog, or driving to and from school, when I’m free to just think. What struck me was the lack of guilt-free downtime and the effect that has on the mind.

This is my downtime!

When you work a paid job, you get a lunch break. You might not get to actually take it (I ate at my desk pretty much every day of my ten-year marketing career) although I think you should always make a point to try. As a contractor I made sure I took my full thirty minutes or an hour, every day, to eat a proper lunch, get some fresh air, and switch off. It’s guilt-free time. You’re being paid to take a break.

Then you get home, sometimes late, granted, (I think 2 am was the latest I got home from work after a particularly challenging deadline), and then that time is yours, until the alarm goes off in the morning and it starts again. And then there are weekends. Well, if you’re not working of course!.

Of course all that goes out the window when you have children, although they do sort of sleep at least some of the time, theoretically giving you an element of guilt-free downtime. Maybe.

When you’re self-employed, though, that guilt-free time is so much harder because, if you’re not working, you’re not earning. I’m not earning anyway, but that’s beside the point. I am trying to make money, and to do so I have to keep on working. Some days I check my sales reports obsessively, as if hoping to see something to make the pain worthwhile (I rarely do.) But all work and no play makes me a grumpy, tired, stressed bunny.

David Eddings’ Belgariad

Last week I re-read David Eddings’ Belgariad series and it felt like being on holiday. Reading = work for an author (well, mostly! It helps if you’re reading something brilliant or within your genre).

Spending a few hours every day curled up around my favourite book was a way to escape without feeling (too) guilty. Unfortunately I came to the end of book five yesterday and the next five books (the Malloreon) are at my Mum’s house. She’s asked to have a week of peace, after my sister and her family went back to the states, so I can’t go and get them until tomorrow.

Probably just as well, as I need to catch up with the writing. Except I haven’t. Instead I’ve been falling asleep on the sofa and waking up at midnight, blurry eyed and numb-brained, trying to make up words for the blog and Claire, trying to think up deep and meaningful tweets or FB status updates, trying to choose front cover images for Two-Hundred Steps Home (October is proving particularly challenging as it hasn’t had a ‘theme’ in the way the other months have).

All the while, in the back of my mind, I know I want to do NaNoWriMo (Hahahahaha falls on floor laughing), it’s half term next week, and I just discovered in my diary that I agreed to give a talk on abstract art to a local college on the first Monday after half term. Eek! There goes any chance of guilt-free downtime in the near future!

Anyway, apologies, this has just turned into a bit of a whinge. It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be an insightful discussion of the effects of life in the twenty-first century where we are never off work, we’re never switched off, we’re never free. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll file that one away to write about another day!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire smiled as the sun streaming in through the window gently woke her; warming her skin and sending sun fairies dancing across her eyelids. With a sense of impending adventure, she pushed back the covers and wondered what was causing the fluttering of anticipation in her stomach.

As she rose and walked to the window, Claire remembered where she was. The gorgeous hostel perched on the hillside with views to die for. It was still early and the other occupants of the room were sound asleep. Pulling on yesterday’s clothes, Claire crept from the room and headed for the kitchen.

The silence continued throughout the hostel, and Claire wondered just how early it was. The kitchen clock said 6 a.m. and Claire laughed, the sound echoing around the empty room.

When did I last wake at dawn without an alarm clock?

Her body felt alight with energy, and Claire thought she would burst if she didn’t do something with it. She wolfed down a quick breakfast, scalding her mouth on too-hot tea, then paced quietly back to her room to grab her boots and bag.

Her discussion with the manager the previous evening had revealed that the South West Coastal Path ran almost from the door of the hostel. The manager had raved so much about the spectacular views that Claire had decided to walk some of the route before driving to Plymouth to meet Conor.

Thinking about the meeting gave her butterflies, so she pushed the thought aside and stuffed snacks and a jumper into her bag. The manager had said a map wasn’t necessary, as the path followed the coast all the way round to Hope Cove. Having checked the map, she suspected she wouldn’t make it quite that far.

The hostel remained silent as she let herself out and into the tropical gardens of the National Trust property. With a deep breath Claire inhaled the scent of plant life soaked in dew, smiling as it sparked memories of the New Zealand bush. She shivered as the early morning air raised goosebumps across her skin, and set off towards the path.

The sun greeted her again as she left the trees and reached the path, and she soon settled into her stride. To one side lay the estuary, sparkling blue beneath her. That’s a long way down. Claire looked around, as if only just realising how high up the path was along the cliffs. I hope it isn’t too steep. She remembered being up near Old Harry Rocks and shuddered.

The path grew steadily steeper, until it was nothing more than a trail of rocks climbing vertically towards the azure sky. Forcing herself not to look back or down, Claire concentrated instead on keeping her footing on the uneven path.

It would be so much more convenient if I hadn’t discovered that I’m scared of heights.

She chanced a look at the view, and swallowed the bile that rose up her throat. Beneath her, crumbling rocks appeared to tumble in slow motion to the sea, as if frozen in the very act of falling. The sea itself rippled in a palette of blues and greens, darker and more foreboding than the sparkling strip of water seen in the distance from the hostel. On a sunny day it seemed merely stark. Claire couldn’t imagine what it would be like in a storm.

Encircled by the stunning vista, Claire wondered for a moment what had possessed her to fly half way round the world, bankrupting herself in the process, to admire the beauty of another country, when she’d barely scratched the surface of her own.

If I thought the Lake District was pretty in winter, that’s going to be nothing to what this place is going to be like in June.

As the sense of adventure built within her, Claire pushed on up the steep path towards the outcrop of rocks silhouetted against the sky above her. The change from light to dark left sunspots in her vision and she blinked to clear it.

Then the world went sideways. Slipping on loose shale, Claire lost her footing and began to slither back down the path towards the cliffs. Thrashing like a landed fish, Claire grabbed around at the grass in an attempt to slow her passage, as the rocks tore at her bare legs and arms.

At last her frantic attempts worked and she came to a halt at the very edge of the path. The rocks loosened by her passage continued on over the edge, falling away to the sea far below.

Claire lay panting, unable to process anything but the fact that she was still alive. Slowly, one piece at a time, her body began to yell out its grievances. Clawing her way back up to a flatter part of the path, Claire assessed the damage. Both shins and arms wept blood, and a tentative exploration of her face revealed a similar story.

Great. I look like the victim of a traffic accident.

She bit her lip against the pain and humiliation, glad no one had been there to witness her fall. Bad enough that she felt like a peeled plum and was going to be sore for days. Then another thought crept in unwelcome and she groaned.

Conor’s going to die laughing.

***

En Guard! 2013 365 Challenge #298

Fencing Lesson

I took little man to his first solo class for the first time today. Actually, pretty much his first class ever, aside from swimming lessons when he was a baby. It’s difficult to do activities with two children of different ages and temperaments. Now my daughter is at school, though, it’s time to stop being rubbish and let the boy have some fun.

I saw an advert for fencing lessons on the FB page of the school we were going to send our daughter to, until we opted to keep her with her friends. One of the plus points of the school, for me, had been the fencing lessons – given by a former champion. Turns out the children don’t have to attend the school to go to the classes.

I was nervous before the class, unsure how my little Mummy’s Boy would cope. Actually it was probably me who did the wrong thing to begin with. I sat too near and found myself acting as supplementary coach, reinforcing the teacher’s instructions. A gentle admonishment later, from the charming Kiwi instructor, and I took myself off to sit with the other mums.

Adorable Preschoolers

More challenges for me there, as I got chatting about it being my son’s first class and had to endure the guilt of the mum next to me talking about all the things her daughter does. I have to remind myself that I made a conscious decision NOT to do loads of activities with the children. I did realise, though, that part of my strategy is flawed: I said I would only sign them up to classes for things they expressed an interest in. But how can they show interest in something they’ve never seen before?

I also made the tactical error of showing my son videos of children fencing, to set his expectations before the class. As a result he was a bit miffed to be led around on a wolf hunt, being surreptitiously taught the right way to move his feet and hold his epee, and kept running back to sit on my lap. Once they got to the ‘proper’ fencing, though, he was a happy boy. Who knows? He might be 2024 Olympic champion! Not that I’m a pushy parent, of course. 😉

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. PLEASE NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND, ALTHOUGH BASED IN AN ACTUAL LOCATION, IT DOES NOT FEATURE REAL PEOPLE OR OPINIONS. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“It’s beautiful here. You must be gutted that it’s closing down.” Claire looked over at the manager, then back out the window at the view. “The thing I love about the YHA hostels is that so many of them are in amazing buildings or locations like this.”

“Unfortunately some of those buildings are actually owned by the National Trust. If they don’t make money, then you can understand why they might decide to call it a day.”

The manager’s reasonable words didn’t fool Claire. She could hear the bitterness carefully concealed beneath the steady conversational tone.

“Your problem has to be access, yes?” Claire thought about some of the places she’d stayed in during her trip around New Zealand. “Why don’t you pick passengers up from the station? That’s what they do in the sticks in other countries.”

The manager smiled. “And who is going to do that? Or pay for the minibus or the insurance? All these things cost money.”

Claire gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “What about the coastal walk near here, what is it–?”

“The South West Coast Path?”

“Yes, that’s it. Could you set yourself up as a waypoint, with special offers for walkers? There’s a website that organises accommodation for walkers: you could speak to them.”

The manager’s smile lost some of its sparkle. “Luggage Transfers? We’re already on it, thanks.”

Claire flushed and turned away. All her research had filled her mind with ideas, but clearly it wasn’t her place to start preaching to random people. She also saw that part of her report would need to include ways of getting businesses to buy into her recommendations. Wading in, assuming they knew nothing, was not a good tactic. The need for Stakeholder interviews were starting to make sense.

“What changes would you make to enable the hostel to remain open?” She shone a grin at the man, and saw his frown ease a fraction.

“The place needs refurbishing, for a start. The company is pouring millions into doing up the city centre hostels, but what about here?”

Claire sat back and listened to the man spill out his grievances, wondering if it would be too obvious to make notes. As she listened to him talk, her mind ran through ideas for how the beautiful, remote, hostels could be kept open. In New Zealand, the bus tours took willing tourists to out of the way places, providing guaranteed visitor numbers.

Maybe what the UK needs is a Magic or Kiwi bus equivalent, linking these places together and making it easier for people to travel off the beaten track without a car.

She remembered Josh walking to the hostel with Beth and Chloe in the Lake District, relying on public transport to bring them over from Keswick. Her brain lit up like a beacon as the ideas rushed into her brain. While the manager talked on about all the things that could be done for his hostel, Claire’s mind pulled together a vision of the future that left her skin prickling with excitement.

***

Getting Organised: 2013 365 Challenge #297

My beautifully organised boot box

The sun came out this morning, so I decided it was a day to get organised. I started with writing a long to-do list, then clearing emails (almost making the children late for school and nursery – thankfully the other school is on half term, so town is quiet). When I got home, even before writing the post that was already late, I got stuck into getting back some order and control.

I started with my car. My car is my mobile house. It replaces my pushchair and baby bag. Usually I can find anything I need in my car. Recently the only things I’ve found are new life forms. When my sister was over, I failed to find plasters, clean socks or snacks – all things I normally have plenty of. I felt wrong-footed by my inability to save the day.

Car seat crumbs

So, with grand plans of taking the car to the valet people, who clean it inside and out for a tenner, I stripped the car bare. I gingerly deposited mouldy things in the bin, recycled twenty plastic bottles and a ream of scrunched up kids’ drawings (shhh, don’t tell them!) I removed the car seats and tried not to flinch at the bucket of crumbs crushed into the seats. Thank God they’re leather. I carried everything in and sat to write my post.

As usual, moments after clicking publish, I had a ‘like’ from one of my favourite Bloggers, Miss Fanny P. I realised I hadn’t stopped by her blog in a while. Turns out it’s been weeks. I sat reading for two whole hours. Looking up, as I got to the end of the posts, I was horrified to discover it was no longer sunny but bucketing down. So much for getting the car washed, taking the dog on the long circuit, or any of the dozen other sunny-day chores.

Still, I sorted my boot box. Plasters (band-aids)? Check. Spare socks and pants? Check. Port-a-potty restocked? Check. I am, once more, calm and in control. It’s just a shame about the crumbs.

P.S. In a fit of super-organisation, above and beyond my usual energy levels, I vacuumed and cleaned the car myself AND walked the dog (though not the long circuit) in between rain showers. I give myself a gold star. 🙂

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Claire looked at the neat stack of printed paper in front of her and smiled. Stretching her neck left and right she wondered what the time was. Her tummy’s growling suggested it was a long time since lunch.

“Excuse me?”

Claire turned quickly and winced as her tight neck muscles protested. Rubbing her hand against the pain, Claire looked in mute enquiry at the librarian she recognised from the front desk.

“I’m afraid the library’s closing now.” The woman’s expression was apologetic, as if the worst thing in the world was interrupting a studious person.

“What time is it?” Claire blinked, her eyes tired from their unaccustomed labour.

“Six o’clock.”

Claire stifled a swear word and thanked the woman, who walked off to gently alert the other people still working around her. Claire quickly gathered together her papers, glad the library had allowed her to write and print her notes. It felt good to be more prepared for meeting her boss the following day. Then her calmness evaporated as she remembered the rest of Conor’s call.

Damn I didn’t call the hostel. He really will despair of me if I can’t even get that right.

Hurrying out the building, Claire searched for her phone and tried to remember the name of the hostel Conor had suggested she stay in for the night. Her breathing quickened as her brain refused to come up with the information. Forced to load the YHA website, Claire hoped there weren’t too many hostels around Plymouth.

In the end it was easy, and she had the number. Deciding to call as she walked, Claire looked around, frowning in the afternoon sun, and tried to remember where she’d parked her car. With a brief prayer to her travel gods that it hadn’t been stolen or towed away, she strode off in what she hoped was the right direction.

“Good evening.” The deep voice startled Claire, as the phone eventually connected.

“Yes, hello,” she said breathlessly, slowing her pace. “I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you might have beds available for this evening?”

“Yes, we have several. How many did you need?

“You do? Marvellous. It’s just for me.”

“How long will you be staying.”

“Just one night. Will I be able to get dinner as well?”

“Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m just leaving Torquay so I’ll be there in however much time that takes.”

“Follow signs for the National Trust Overbecks, the road is quite steep I’m afraid, but you won’t have any problem parking as it’s after 5 pm.”

Claire thanked the manager for the information and hung up the phone with a sense of relief. Maybe the fiasco could be averted after all.

The water stretching out ahead of her sparkled in the evening sun, and white boats bobbed on the waves. Claire felt her mind drawn back to the sandy beach she had driven past, wondering if there was time to stop and take in the view. Her tummy gurgled and she decided to press on to the hostel.

The narrow lane wound up the hillside and Claire had to drag her eyes away from the scenery in order to stay on the road. Conor wasn’t kidding about the view, it was spectacular, overlooking the estuary and surrounded by mature woodland. Negotiating another switch back in first gear, Claire gave her new car a pat on the dashboard.

“Come on, you can do it. I know it’s steep; you’re doing great.”

The car grumbled in reply and Claire eased it around the bend, relieved to see the car park up ahead. Her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, as she pulled her bag from the boot and went in search of the hostel entrance. Wandering along the path, through exotic trees and down endless steps, Claire thought ruefully that it wouldn’t be somewhere to come with small children, and then wondered what had made her think that.

At last the building came into sight, but Claire turned instead to face away over the water. It was idyllic.

What a shame that they’re closing it. I wonder if they struggle to get visitors: it’s not everyone who would struggle up that lane, and it’s not the most family-friendly location.

She imagined what it would be like coming with Sky; constantly worrying that the girl might have disappeared into the gardens or fallen down the stairs.

I guess a baby would be okay, as long as you had a sling rather than a pushchair.

Puzzled by the odd direction of her thoughts, Claire soaked in the last of the view, then went to check in.

***

Little Adventures: 2013 365 Challenge #296

Do they do Grown-up ones?

Today we got stuck in to the new normal. It was my first day home with little man by himself and we embraced it. We went swimming, at his request, and discovered the local pool has a parent and toddler session in the morning, complete with toys and singing (and in the warmer training pool too, hurrah!)

Then we went to the supermarket for lunch and shopping, and discovered the existence of super-cool car trollies that made shopping with a three year old boy much more fun. Mummy discovered how much mess a dropped 6 pint bottle of milk makes too! “Clean up at till five please!”

Mummy also found out that little boys who have done ninety minutes of swimming, followed by ninety minutes of shopping, fall asleep on the way home so that Wheels on the Bus can be turned off and Mummy can sit in the driveway reading her book.

It’s kind of weird having to rediscover parenting, having stuck to the tried and tested places to go for the last year or two. I find I’ve lost my nerve for new. Two years ago I took two children swimming by myself when one was just a baby – now I find it hard to take one preschooler who is more than happy in the water! It’s amazing how quickly we can get stuck in a rut and lose our confidence.

But, with an eager and energetic three-year-old to wear out and entertain, I can feel some exploration and adventure coming my way! I’m terrified and excited in equal measure.

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Claire typed some words into the search box and hit return. The library felt cool, despite the sunshine outside, and she wished she’d brought a jacket. Scanning down the list of results, Claire tutted and changed her search parameters. Still nothing.

What did I expect? That the internet would magically produce a report on tourism in the south west? If it was that easy, Conor would have done it himself rather than hiring me.

She sat back in her chair and listened to a mother reading stories to her two children. She admired the way the woman poured her heart and soul into her reading, bringing the characters to life and speaking in different voices.

Dragging her mind away, Claire turned back to the computer, cursing the lack of funds that stopped her replacing her tablet.

At least Conor’s bringing me a laptop.

The thought didn’t make her smile. Conor was also bringing himself; his expectations that she was capable of delivering a report on tourism in less than three months’ time.

What do I know about tourism? I’m amazed I even made it through the interview.

She tried to think back over the weeks to when she’d sat facing the men in suits, and had sold herself and her talents. What had she said that had captured Conor’s enthusiasm and made him move heaven and earth to hire her? The intervening weeks in New Zealand appeared to have leeched all business thoughts from her brain.

At last her random searching came across a website promising to help the tourism industry develop the visitor experience. Flicking through the pages, Claire realised she didn’t even understand the terminology. Phrases like “Primary visitor research” and “In-depth stakeholder interviews” left her none the wiser. In her experience stakeholders were the company directors and clients paying her wages. Who were the stakeholders for tourism?

People like Conor, I guess. Or business owners, people running B&Bs. I don’t know. And how do you interview them all? And what the hell is primary visitor research? Is that what I’m meant to be doing?

Claire rubbed at her temples and let out a sigh. Fighting back tears she, loaded the library catalogue and looked instead for books on the subject. Choosing the most basic looking ones she went off to discover whether they were on the shelves or not.

Damn, it’s like being back at school.

As she wandered around the gallery looking for the books, Claire glanced over at the fiction section below, and thought how nice it was to be back in a library. There had been little reason to visit one, once she had graduated, and she’d forgotten what restful places they were.

The sound of children laughing rose up from the lower floor and Claire smiled. In her student days the noise would have irritated her but it seemed fitting.

It’s nice the kids still come to a library, instead of spending all day on their phones and computers.

Finally locating the section she needed, Claire grabbed a handful of books and went to find a desk. Then she realised she didn’t have so much as a pen or notepad with her, and went back to reception to see if she could borrow something.

Honestly, Claire, you need to get your act together and start taking it all a bit more seriously, or Conor is going to see straight through you.

For some reason making Conor unhappy worried her a lot more than it ever had with Carl. In fact, annoying Carl had become something of a game.

I knew what I was doing then. I don’t want Conor to think I’m an idiot, that’s all.

Trying not to dwell on it, Claire returned to her books and set about learning something about Tourism.

***

In the Now: 2013 365 Challenge #295

And it rained…

We’re always hearing about the importance of ‘Living in the now’. Children and dogs do it really well: they forgive mistakes, don’t hold grudges, are rarely judgemental and can be distracted from misery to happiness in a heartbeat.

Grown-ups; not so much. We live in the past, dwelling on mistakes, re-living better days, yearning for the time when we had a decent job, a lunch break and enough money to buy stuff without feeling guilty (or maybe that’s just the mums!). Or we live for the future: the weekend, the promotion, the new car, the holiday, Christmas, retirement. Even when we are in the now, we moan about it.

“It’s raining.”

“I’m bored.”

“God, I’m ill/tired/stressed.”

We don’t look around and see the beauty in the world. We don’t look at the rain and think, That means the grass is going to grow for another season. That’s topping up the rivers so I can turn on my tap and have a nice cool drink of water. Our minds are like skittish kittens, darting from one shiny thought to the next.

Mindfulness (as I understand it) teaches about living in the now: about being present in the moment without judging it. I don’t know a lot about Mindfulness as a theory, because I have little patience for self-help books. Not that I don’t believe in them, just I don’t seem to be able to read them without looking at myself with loathing and thus spiralling down into darkness. That’s just me. But I understand the principle. Life doesn’t fly by so fast if we can concentrate on the present rather than worrying about the past or future. We enjoy life more if we can give each moment our full attention without judging or criticising ourselves or others or the situation.

Remembering sunny days

However, there are times when I wonder if it is dangerous to live always in the now. Human beings are very good at forgetting: Mothers would never have more than one child if they couldn’t forget the pain of childbirth. We’d never fall in love more than once if the brain didn’t soften the pain of rejection in our memories. Those are good things.

But it’s also easy to look at the rain and think “It’s been raining for weeks! It always rains. When did the sun last shine? I’m so sick of it.” When, actually, the sun shone yesterday. The summer was amazing.

It has rained more or less nonstop here for two weeks (My poor sister, they had the worst of the year’s weather during their visit) but that doesn’t mean it’s been raining forever.

The same happens when we’re ill. A cold, viewed from the outside, is pretty trivial. I joke with my hubbie that I’m only ever sympathetic when I succumb to the same virus. Because, on the inside, it feels like it’s going to last forever; that I never felt well before and my head has ached since the dawn of time. Then it goes, and slowly wellness creeps up, and we take it for granted, until we’re ill again.

Depression can be like that. Down in the pit of despair, it can feel like there is absolutely nothing in the world to live for. That the world will be dark forever and ever. Those who suffer from long-term depression have it the worst because they know that beyond the rise of the next hill is another dark valley. But at the point in which you’re sitting in that pit; that is definitely not the time to live in the now. That’s the time to remember past happiness and look forward to future joy.

One of the bloggers I follow, Michelle Holland of Mummylovestowrite, is currently in one of those deep dips. I want to reach in and pull her out, even though her recent post could have described the inside of my mind two weeks ago (not to the same extremity, as I don’t have chronic depression or anxiety, but close enough). I want to tell her she will laugh again, that she will find something to live for. Except she already knows. She is a strong person. She writes “The real me likes to read, write, enjoy music and interact with others.”

The real me.

Sometimes in the now, especially in a dark now of exhaustion or depression or calamity, we forget who the real us is. That’s when it’s important to look to the past, to remind us, and to concentrate on a brighter future. It’s important not to let the now define us.

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Claire pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen to see who was calling. A smile spread across her face and she looked around for somewhere to sit before selecting answer.

“Hi, Conor.” Her voice rang out into the afternoon sunshine, and she blushed as two passers-by turned to stare.

“Good afternoon, Claire, how’re things?”

Claire looked down the high street and wondered whether to be honest. “Great, they’re great. I’m in Torquay.”

“How’s Kim?” Conor’s voice held a hint of wariness.

“Good, I hope. She’s with her parents.” Claire chose not to reveal that she’d taken a day off to drive her friend home.

“Oh.” She waited while Conor processed the information. “For the best, I suspect. I wish her a speedy recovery.”

The business-like tone of his voice caused the smile on Claire’s face to falter. Just when she felt she knew him, he said or did something that reminded her he was her boss.

As if in confirmation, Conor continued in a brisk tone. “How is the report coming along? I know it’s only been a week, but three months will fly by.” He didn’t need to add that his neck was on the line alongside hers.

A week?

Claire was startled to realise she had been home from New Zealand for so long. It felt like only a day or two since Conor had collected her from the airport.

“Er, yeah, good. Spending time in the English Riviera has helped to frame things.”

“It’s a nice part of the country,” Conor said without inflection.

Claire wondered if he thought all places inferior to the Isle of Purbeck or whether he was disappointed that she hadn’t travelled further in the few days she’d been on the road. With a flush she realised she’d spent half her time dealing with Kim and the rest buying and getting used to her new car.

If I’m not careful I’m going to get sacked before I receive my first pay cheque.

She vowed to spend the next twenty-four hours writing something up before Conor called her bluff and asked for an initial report.

“It occurred to me that we haven’t provided you with the means to compile your findings or send regular updates. I’m in the area tomorrow evening, ready for a meeting first thing Monday. I’ll bring a laptop with me, and you can update me on your first impressions.”

Claire’s heart plummeted and the bacon and brie Panini she’d just eaten sat heavy in her stomach.

Crap.

“Where are you heading tomorrow?” Conor continued. “My meeting is in Plymouth so I’ll be staying in the town overnight. I can recommend the hostel at Salacombe for tonight, if they have space. It’s about an hour from Plymouth but I won’t be in town until the evening anyway. The views are amazing. It’s closing down later in the year as they haven’t been able to renew their lease with the National Trust. It would be a shame to miss out.”

The casual way Conor demonstrated his thorough knowledge of the local area made Claire’s ears buzz with fear.

I am so out of my depth. I thought this would be an easy assignment – a jaunt around a few more hostels and a quick presentation at the end of it. There is so much I have no idea about.

Conscious of how much needed to be done in the next twenty-four hours; Claire took note of where Conor wanted to meet up, and made her excuses.

Time to get to work.

***

Most Days When It Rains – A Poem (neverendingstorydepository.wordpress.com)

The New Normal: 2013 365 Challenge #294

Bottle top faces

This evening marks the eve of the new normal for our family. After a year of unemployment, self employment, projects, lucky breaks, disasters, starting school, publishing books, and finally seeing my sister and her family for the first time in nearly three years, we’re about to embrace a new start: hopefully one with a semblance of routine and normality.

I said goodbye to my sister tonight, and the cousins – who only really met for the first time twelve days ago – had to have the last screaming game of chase and the last negotiation of cuddles for at least another year.

We all cried. When we got home, despite it being bedtime and hubbie retreating poorly to bed, I made pancakes and the children and I settled down to do craft. Normality creeps in through the chaos.

Tomorrow morning hubbie starts his new job. The children will be at school and preschool. My sister and her family will board a plane back to Boston. I’ll write my next Claire installment and iron some clothes. Walk the dog; do the weekly food shop.

Super cool dude

Miss my sister. Enjoy the silence.

The normality will only last a week, before it’s half term and I have to figure out how to write seven daily blog posts with no childcare and no hubbie at home to help. Fun times ahead!

I’m looking forward to our new normal though. Much as I love having hubbie at home and able to spend time with the kids, I do like routine. Even getting into a rhythm of ironing shirts and uniform, making packed lunches and finding book-bags on a Sunday night fills me with a quiet sense of achievement. I’m not an organised person, but when it falls into place it feels nice.

And, of course let’s be honest, I’m rather looking forward to having a bit of time by myself. Even with the extra duties that come with hubbie being out the house all day, I do rather like shutting the front door and knowing it’s just me and the dog for a few hours. When you know there’s only you to do the work, it doesn’t seem so much of a chore somehow. Here’s to the new normal. Let’s hope this endless rain isn’t part of it!

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire meandered down the high street and watched the busy shoppers scurrying from store to store, their hands clutching bags of all sizes and colours.

As she looked about her at the town centre, with the endless row of cream buildings towering over her, Claire felt a strange sense of displacement. It was Saturday, and she didn’t know what to do with her day.

Trying to view everything as a tourist, to take in what worked and what didn’t, occupied part of her mind. In the back, however, like chattering children in the cinema, her thoughts kept making disturbing observations.

What did I used to do at the weekend, when I had a normal life? When I wasn’t working, sleeping off a hangover or visiting my parents?

With a pang she realised that, up until last Christmas, weekends had been spent with Michael. Even then, she couldn’t really remember what they did. On a Sunday they read the papers in comfortable silence in one of the many coffee shops. Saturdays usually meant the cinema or going out to dinner or maybe a walk in the park. Mostly they spent too long in bed or talked about work.

What do single people do? Do they just go shopping, and spend all the money they’ve worked so hard to earn during the week? Go to theatres and museums by themselves? Meet with friends? Read a book? Clean the house?

She’d been shocked when Ruth had reminded her it was only four months since she’d left for Berwick-upon-Tweed. Normal life seemed such a long time ago. Still, she guessed that four months of never really knowing what day of the week it was, and there being nothing to mark the difference in days except some things were shut on a Sunday, made it feel much longer.

Claire wondered if that was what had prompted Ruth to start attending church on Sunday, once she had free time without Sky. Was it for a sense of routine? Or to meet people?

As she let her feet direct her into a café for lunch and a latte, Claire became conscious of an overwhelming sense of the futility of things.

We go to work, to earn money, to buy stuff to make ourselves happy because we’ve spent all week at work. What on Earth is that all about?

It was easy to feel there was no point at all without someone to share it with. But looking back on her time with Michael, it hadn’t seemed all that different. Of course she had enjoyed his company, in and out of the bedroom. But what did they ever actually talk about but the latest scandal at work or where to go for dinner. That all seemed pretty meaningless too.

Is that why Michael wanted children? To give life some purpose.

She thought about her time with Sky. It certainly filled the day with things to do, but she couldn’t see how it gave life meaning. Headaches, heartache, insomnia, but not meaning. If not work, or children, or friends or lovers, then what?

Claire wrapped her hands around her mug of coffee, waiting for some low-paid barista staff to bring her an overpriced Panini, and wondered if somehow she’d missed the point.

***

Stilling the Voices: 2013 365 Challenge #293

The sun at last

I finally got to take the dog for a long walk today. It seems to have been raining for a fortnight and I confess the dog only gets the twenty-minute walk when it’s wet.

Today the sun shone and I happily strode around the 45 minute circuit enjoying the feeling of warmth on my face and a breeze on my skin. When I’ve been too much indoors my skin feels like it can’t breathe.

The challenge for me at such times is being able to still the voices in my head.

It sometimes feels like I’m walking around with a radio on my shoulder, like the kids you used to see on the high street with a ghetto blaster, in the days before iPods and tiny headphones. Freed from the constant chatter of the children, the kids’ TV, the family, the emails, texts and tweets, my brain runs like it’s on rails. A dozen different monologues chunter on, as I mentally write a blog post, plan my next novel and come up with a dozen marketing ideas I’ll never find time for.

Enjoying the evening sun

Usually I take my phone, so I can write one thing down and silence the cacophony. Today I left my phone behind, hoping to get free from the noise, from the endless words. Too much time indoors, more children than I’m used to, and a serious bout of sleep deprivation, has left me full up to the brim.

Unfortunately the voices don’t stop. Try as I might to focus on the autumn leaves, the sun shining in puddles or the dog frolicking across the fields, the inner voice doesn’t shut up.

Sometimes when I walk I end up with a children’s song stuck in my mind. A repetitive marching one, like Grand Old Duke of York or Nelly the Elephant. It drives me nuts. Like someone tuned the radio to the most annoying channel possible before removing the dial.

Today I wondered if actually it’s my brain’s way of switching off. The equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and going “la la la la” to drown out the voices. Is that why people chant when they meditate? I’ve never tried meditation, but it occurs to me that the chanting might serve to block the endless chatter of the mind. If only my brain could settle on something less maddening than a nursery rhyme.

________________________________________________________________________________

The fireball sun hovered low in the sky, painting the clouds in lavish strokes of indigo and scarlet.

Claire followed her feet around the harbour, her mind moving as restlessly as the boats moored in the water. Beneath each straining white craft the sea rose and fell in gentle swells.

The scene was not the picture-postcard view of perfect reflections, that she’d seen hanging in a shop window during her evening stroll. Somehow, though, the endless motion of the tethered boats matched her mood. She could empathise with their constant urge to pull free and leave the safety of the shallow waters.

Around her an eclectic mix of buildings climbed the hillsides to overlook the town. A two-tone church watched paternally from above, while apartments and villas gathered to gossip on the opposite hill.

The moniker of English Riviera suited the place. It lacked the polished style of the Mediterranean, but still sat resplendent in its English charm.

The sun sank lower in the sky, its dimming brilliance picked up by streetlights and hotels, as if the baton for luminescence had been passed down to the them.

Calm fell over the water and, like children finally exhausted by their play, the boats ceased their bobbing and lay still. Gradually the surface of the harbour flattened until Claire could see the yachts and buildings reflected in perfect symmetry.

Her wandering steps led her out towards the sea which stretched not to the horizon but to more lights in the distance. She tried to work out what place she could see, but the geography of the area had yet to settle in her mind.

Turning her head back towards the town, Claire was surprised to see a bright white wheel dominating the skyline. The Ferris wheel hadn’t been noticeable in the daylight, with the houses and hillside behind it. Now it illuminated the harbour like a giant watching eye.

Around her Claire heard the sounds of Friday night revelry notching up a gear.

I guess in some ways we will never be like the Mediterranean.

From what she could remember of trips to Italy, night-time revelry mostly consisted of walking up and down the main street catching up with friends, followed by a late meal and even later celebrations at some nightclub in the hills.

Not drunk and rowdy teenagers collecting in groups and vomiting on the pavement.

As if to punctuate the thought, a huddle of bodies stumbled past and several people tumbled into the gutter amidst howls of laughter.

Her skin prickled as she sensed one of the men watching her. Aware of how far she had walked from the hostel, Claire forced herself to turn slowly and amble back towards town.

“Hey, pretty lady, wanna have some fun?”

Claire ducked her head and pretended not to hear. She felt his gaze piercing her shoulder blades, and every nerve zinged with the need to run. Reminding herself she wasn’t in a dark lane, but out in the open with plenty of witnesses, Claire concentrated on keeping her steps measured.

With a silent bark of derision she realised how soft she’d become in the months since leaving Manchester.

Once upon a time I would have told him where to go. She sighed. It seemed there was no end to what she had lost thanks to Carl’s machinations.

As soon as she was some distance from the group she lengthened her stride until the buildings came forward to greet her, providing the illusion of safety.

She tried to take in the details dispassionately; to generate ideas for her tourism report for Conor. Instead a wave of sadness washed around her, as if the harbour water had risen in a sudden squall to drench her tranquillity.

Ringing loud in her mind, as clear as if she had shouted it out to the hidden ocean, came the thought that she didn’t want to be here. No matter how beautiful the view or how peaceful the sounds of boats settling together like a flock of roosting birds, it was just another step in her endless journey.

What the hell am I doing? All I know about being a tourist is that I don’t want to be one anymore.

Folding her arms across her chest, Claire ducked her head and let her urgent feet carry her back to her borrowed bed.

***

School: Who is in charge? 2013 365 Challenge #292

Happy school

We had our first ‘learning conversation’ at school today (parents’ evening in the old language.) Our daughter has only been at school a few weeks, so there wasn’t much to discuss except is she making friends okay and how can we support her burgeoning desire to read? (She’s wanted to read for ages but wouldn’t let Mummy teach her! When she read out simple words like Pat and Mac this evening I wanted to burst with pride.)

It was the conversations in the playground that I found interesting though. We have a little book that is meant to be our means for communicating with the teachers, when it isn’t possible to catch them in the morning, and aside from the ten minute learning conversation slot every few months.

I happened to mention that I wrote something in the book about my daughter’s phonics and was disappointed that it wasn’t responded to – and that one of the assistants made the same point two rows below. (I confess, I scrawled in red pen “please refer!” and drew an arrow up to our comment. Okay, I’m a child!)

Some of my parent friends laughed at me, and I couldn’t understand why. Was it because I was pushing my child too hard, or that I had enough time to read through her homework diary (I know I’m extremely fortunate to have that extra time, that working parents sometimes don’t, and I was concerned that I was rubbing it in.) Hubbie was with me and I asked him what he thought I’d done wrong. His view surprised me: he thinks they laughed because I challenged the teacher with my comment. And it got me thinking – do some parents see it that the teachers are in charge and they have no role to play in their child’s education? Do I?

Playing after school

If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said of course they are. They’re the professionals, what do I know? I would no more home-school than I would home-dentist. But now I have a slightly different view.

Of course teachers are better informed in how to get the best learning experience out of a child, and I intend to leave as much to them as possible. Particularly because my daughter doesn’t want to learn from me and I can’t help but get frustrated when she can sound a word out perfectly – say C.A.T. – and then read it as “dog”. I mean, really? 😉

However, am I prepared to leave it entirely to the teachers, and not want to know the details of what she’s learning, especially at this early stage? No. Not any more. Teachers are human just as I am. I made mistakes in my job, I took the wrong things seriously, I did my best and it wasn’t always perfect. I’m not saying teachers will make mistakes, but they are only human. Plus, even with the assistants, they’re still on a 12-1 ratio. And, ultimately, no one will understand or care for my child as I do.

It’s difficult to do things that get laughed at. I remember now laughing at one of my other parent friends because she checked her son’s merit chart every day to make sure he was getting merits (think gold stars). I felt she was a bit pushy. How wrong I was. She was just interested and keen that he did well. It’s so easy to judge from the outside, but none of us can know how we’ll react until it is our turn! So, yes, I’ll be the pushy parent, the pain, the one questioning and asking and not taking it all for granted. Up until now I’ve left the professionals to it. But not any more!

________________________________________________________________________________

“Hello?”

“Ruth, hi, it’s Claire.” She held her breath, waiting for the tirade. There was silence, and she imagined her sister’s mouth hanging open like a fish as she tried to decide how angry to be.

“Hi, sis, how are you? How was New Zealand? The pictures on the blog looked amazing.”

It was Claire’s turn to hesitate. The warmth in her sister’s voice and words momentarily froze her brain.

“Er, it was lovely. Bit cold, in the south. It’s good to be back in the UK. Um, sorry I didn’t stop by when I got home.”

“That’s okay, Mum said you had some problems with Kim or something. I hope she’s okay?”

Still the uncharacteristic mellow tone. Claire felt like she was talking to a stranger.

“Yes, Kim’s been, um, poorly. She was going to come travelling with me but we decided she needed to stay with her parents for a while.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best. Have you started your new job? Didn’t I read on the blog that you were working for Dorset tourism or something?”

“What? I mean, yes I started work this week. I’ve got three months to prove my worth.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage it; after four months on the road you must have a pretty good handle on what tourists want. And at least you’re not working for that silly man any more, or a faceless corporation like Happy Cola.”

Claire shivered. She’d never known her sister to show so much interest in her life before or to talk for so long without saying anything about how awful her own life was. She felt like she’d woken in an alternative reality.

“How’s Sky?” That would be safer territory.

“She’s great. She’s spending time with Chris at the weekends, so I’ve had a chance to get some rest, catch up on reading and housework, that kind of thing.”

“Huh? I thought you said she’d see Chris over your dead body?” Claire’s head reeled with the change of direction.

“Yes, well, it nearly came to that, didn’t it?”

Ruth’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool Claire, but she was glad of it. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more lachrymose languishing. Even so, the idea that her sister was willingly making contact with the ex-husband she swore she’d never see again was too much to take in.

“Blimey, I’ve only been away a month and the world’s on its head. What made you change your mind?”

“Sky. She kept asking to see her dad and her new sister. At first it made me cross, with her and you.”

Claire braced herself for the attack she knew was coming. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bump into him.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done me a favour. We’ve agreed that Sky will spend every other weekend with him, and Bryony and Eloise of course.”

That was too much for Claire. “Hang on. Sorry, I can’t get my head around this. Bryony? Not that woman? What the hell happened, Ruth?”

“It was time I forgave him. I didn’t make life easy for him, when Sky was born. I see that now. And family is important. Sky probably won’t have any other siblings through me; she should be allowed to know her sister.”

A suspicion crept into Claire’s brain, only to be dismissed. Something about the way Ruth spoke, her measured tone and air of calm forgiveness, made her sound like a missionary. As if hearing Claire’s thoughts, Ruth’s next words confirmed it.

“I’ve started going to a new church on Sunday. They made me see that life’s too short for grudges. You should come, Claire, next time you’re home. They’re wonderful people.”

“Sure, I’ll do that,” Claire muttered. Part of her felt relieved that Ruth had found a new focus in life, but another part of her worried that Ruth had been brainwashed by some cult.

I watch too much TV. A church in the midlands isn’t going to be a brainwashing cult.

With a wry smile, she pushed the foolish thoughts aside. “I have to go, Ruth, but I’m so glad to hear that you’re getting on well. I’ll give you another call soon. You take care.”

As she hung up the phone, Claire’s mind whirled with new emotions.

***

A Breather: 2013 365 Challenge #291

My smart son

As you may have noticed, I ended up separating the ‘top part’ of my two-part daily blog challenge today and publishing it on its own. If you didn’t spot it, I wrote this, all about the news that the likes of Kobo and Amazon are deleting e-books they consider to be inappropriate.

It ended up being rather long (over 1000 words) and emotive and didn’t sit happily with a Claire installment. It also ate up all my writing time this morning (darling hubbie has taken our daughter to school and our son to the barbers so I can have some time to catch up, but they’ve just got back).

So, I’m off to find something for Claire to do today, while my boiling brain comes down from researching and writing about e-book censorship, and my son watches a DVD.

In the meantime, here’s a lovely picture of my son proudly wearing his new Red Sox baseball top, courtesy of his auntie and uncle. Doesn’t he look smart?

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire drove along the twisting tree-covered lane and let her mind drift, enjoying the empty car and empty roads. She wondered how Kim was settling in at her parents’ house and hoped her friend wasn’t holding any grudges.

I guess that’s probably too much to ask for. If she’ll forgive me when she’s better, that will be enough.

The sense of freedom filling her spirit made her heart ache with a mixture of joy and guilt. It was good to be free of the coach and the schedule, and – if she was honest – free from Kim’s constant misery. Did that make her a bad person?

As if running through the events of the year, her thoughts turned to Josh. She hadn’t heard from him since his return to Fiona, and she hoped it was because he was pouring his energy into making his marriage work, and not because he had found his escapism elsewhere.

I really should send him a note, make sure he’s okay.

She added it to her list of things to do and tried to push it out of her head. Another face tugged at her mind, someone else she hadn’t contacted recently enough. Ruth.

Damn. I meant to call in and see her before I left for the south. In all the confusion with Kim and not having a bloody car, I forgot.

Remorse twisted at her stomach and she vowed to ring her sister as soon as she got to the next hostel.

That’s assuming I ever get there.

Claire pulled the car around another sharp bend and tried to rein in her frustration. On the map, the tiny white road along the edge of the county had seemed to promise stunning sea views or at least beautiful scenery. So far it had delivered mostly urban roads and tree-lined lanes. She knew the sea was somewhere to her left, but it didn’t show itself very often.

I think the first thing I need to do is buy a new guide to Britain. Goodness only knows what happened to mine.

It was hard not to feel like her life had come full circle, as she followed the SatNav’s directions into town. It had been less than four months since she’d driven to Berwick-upon-Tweed with little idea of what the future held in store for her. In all those weeks she’d stayed in so many different places, home and abroad, that they were all beginning to merge together.

The hostel, when she arrived, looked like just another Victorian terrace in a wide street of cream houses. It didn’t feel particularly touristy, but she could at least see the sea in the distance as she pulled up outside.

With a sigh, Claire found somewhere to leave her new car, grateful that it had travelled the short distance without breaking down, and went to check in.

Inside, the building felt more like student digs than a hostel. The website had suggested it was a good base for seasonal workers, and Claire figured that probably explained most of the residents. It gave it a strange feel, as if she were intruding; coming to crash on someone’s sofa. More than anything, it made her yearn for a place of her own.

Forcing a grin, she strode up to the reception and dropped her bag. “Hi, I’m here to check in.”

***

The Life We Choose: 2013 365 Challenge #290

Laundry Mountain

Sometimes the choices we make for ourselves are the hardest ones to live with. Situations that life throws at us can be endured, but taking responsibility for our own actions, our own choices, takes more courage.

Six years ago I chose to leave a good job because it wasn’t for me and was making me miserable. Hubbie supported me in my decision, even though I had no job to go to. I had every intention of making money selling paintings, not realising what a daft dream that was, and ended up contracting instead. Hubbie had to put up with my grump as I commuted four hours a day, leaving at 6am and getting back at 8pm.

Then I got pregnant and knew I wanted to be at home with my children as much as possible. Not full time, I wasn’t capable of that. But we reordered our finances so I could have a day or two to write without feeling pressured to earn enough to pay for the childcare. My part of the deal was taking on all the household chores. It was a fair trade.

When hubbie was made redundant I accepted that most of those chores and childcare duties would remain mine as he sought work and undertook DIY projects. But it’s one thing doing all the house stuff when you’re the only adult in it and another still doing them when someone else is there, even if they’re busy working. Mostly I manage to keep perspective, with the odd request for hubbie to empty the dishwasher or cook dinner.

My amazing hubbie

During the daily blog nightmare, hubbie has been amazing, taking the kids, doing the school run, giving me time to write. And I love him for it. But on days like today, when time is precious, and more hours have been spent on housework and chores than writing, I find myself getting resentful and snappy, even when I know he is working too.

Hubbie and I had a row as I chucked the makings of stew in the pot before rushing out to collect the kids. I haven’t written a word today and it makes me crabby. But these were my choices. I don’t have to go to work on Monday. He does. I don’t have to worry about meeting new colleagues or still finding time for the kids. I appreciate everything he has given me and I try so hard not to complain.

So this is an apology to him. I know I made my choices, and they genuinely make me happy. Sorry I forgot for a moment.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked around at the endless rows of cars and tried not to panic. Remembering her father’s advice, she pushed her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face. Confidence, that was the key. That, and knowing he had agreed to lend her five hundred pounds to buy her first car. She felt eighteen years old.

Claire peered through the window of the nearest vehicle, despite the price tag hanging from the window. She wondered if there was anything in her price range.

Probably tucked at the back, out of sight.

She sighed. There was no denying that it hurt to be looking for a tatty rust bucket rather than a nice Audi or BMW.

I made my choices, I guess.

“Can I help you, madam?”

The voice greeting her was closer than she expected, and it made her jump. Turning to face the source of the voice, she had to suppress a giggle. He looked about ten years younger than her, in a shiny suit that didn’t seem to fit very well.

“I’m looking for a car.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place.” He laughed, then stopped as Claire raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of car are you looking for?”

The salesman looked her up and down and she could imagine him taking in her stretch jeans and polo shirt, the sunglasses holding back her heavy brown hair, and trying to decide what would best suit her.

“How about a nice Range Rover, or the BMW X5?” He looked around, as if surprised to discover there weren’t any parked right by him.

Claire didn’t know whether to be flattered or horrified that he clearly took her for a yummy mummy. “I’d love one, but my budget doesn’t stretch I’m afraid. I just need a runabout that will take me around the West Country for a few weeks. When I return to the city I won’t need it.” She hoped her cover story – that she was on assignment from a City job – didn’t sound too forced. Then she wondered why it mattered what some lad in the sticks thought of her.

“Oh, right.” The salesman’s face fell dramatically and Claire half expected him to stick out his bottom lip. She guessed he was paid commission.

There’s not going to be much coming from me, I’m afraid. Better luck next time.

She followed the man through the sparkling sea of cars to the back of the lot where, as she suspected, the two or three cheap cars lurked unwanted and unloved.

Her Dad had explained they would be trade-ins and there wouldn’t be much choice, as the garages usually off-loaded them at auction. “I don’t need choice,” had been her response, “I need reliability.”

Her dad had sucked air in through his teeth and asked her if she had breakdown cover. It didn’t bode well.

The salesman started rambling on about low insurance groups and minimal tax. Claire let the words wash over her as she peered in the windows of the brown, beige and grey cars huddled together as if for protection.

Why do older cars look so furtive? As if they’re glad to have escaped the crusher?

Even with the fondness she had developed for the Skoda, Claire still shuddered as she opened creaking doors to be greeted by the stink of stale smoke and overpowering air fresheners.

She climbed inside the least awful car and flinched as her hands touched the sticky seats. Quickly climbing out, Claire smoothed the grimace off her face and turned back to the salesman.

“Is this all you’ve got?”

He nodded, all his exuberance gone as he realised he was unlikely to make a sale.

With a shrug, Claire looked them over again. “Which is likely to be the most reliable?”

The boy shook his head, to indicate he had no idea.

“Well, can I speak to your boss, then, please?” Claire stood with one hand on her hip. The salesman hesitated, then nodded again and strode across the parking lot.

It was several long minutes before an older man threaded his way through the cars towards her. Claire had had time to regret her request. It was easy to keep up a front with the inexperienced salesboy, but a manager was likely to prove tougher.

“Can I help you, madam?” The man asked, in a deep gravelly voice. His eyes twinkled and his face showed signs of habitual laughter.

Claire felt herself relax slightly. “I need a cheap runabout to get me round the West Country without breaking down. I’ve only got five hundred quid.” She gave a wry smile. “The Company doesn’t believe in exec cars, and I’ve never needed one before.” That was mostly the truth.

She half expected the man to rub his hands in glee and sell her the worst of the lot. Instead he smiled, and gave an understanding nod.

“It’s going to be tricky to find reliability for that kind of money. What you need is something that’ll be cheap to fix.”

It wasn’t what Claire wanted to hear. Maybe hiring a car would be a better option after all.

“We’ve got a nice Vauxhall Cavalier. You could probably fix that yourself if it broke down.” He gestured towards a boxy red car in the corner that Claire hadn’t noticed before. She walked over and peered through the window. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders as she saw a neat black interior. When she opened the door it smelled clean and cared for.

“Owner didn’t want to part with her, but the wife popped out a fourth and they had to get a seven-seater.” The manager walked up beside her. “It’s only done forty-thousand miles. Twelve months MOT, six months tax. It’s got a sunroof and electric windows, which is pretty good for a twenty-year-old car. It’ll get you forty to the gallon, which you’ll need if you’re putting in some miles. Petrol, too, so cheaper to run these days. Not like it used to be.”

Claire climbed into the car and let the man’s words flow around her like summer rain. It was bigger than the Skoda, more comfortable too.

“You’ll need to watch the oil and water,” the man continued, “they can get a bit thirsty. Should be cheap to insure though. Small engine.”

With her hands on the steering wheel, Claire sat back and let her body sink into the seat. A car. Her own car. To drive wherever she need to go. A smile spread across her face.

“I’ll take it.”

***