It’s been 5 months.
Mm-hmm — a whole 5 months and one little week since last I was in actual, physical work.
It doesn’t feel like 5 months — I received my P45 only 4 weeks ago — it feels like 4 weeks to me, if I’m honest.
Tomorrow at 9 am I start a new job — I think it’s going to be a shock to the system. They seem like really nice people and like a breath of fresh air — after 4 weeks off I think it’s time I got back into the swing of things before I get a chance to rust.
I need to ask, what the hell have I been doing?
Well, I’ve been to London a few times to stay with my cousin and aunt, I’ve spent some time in Wales, and had a few BBQs — I’ve been run ragged by little Myles (been blowing raspberries on windows), played pingpong in a nightclub, had meals out, been to a few coffee shops, popped round to see friends, and enjoyed a nice ice-cream on the beach.
I’ve been applying for jobs and have attended a few assessment centres and interviews, and a medical, and of course I visited the doctor a few times whilst I was signed off — and I was just about to forget my involvement with the Local Elections and the count.
I’ve been reading and catching up on NCIS (I hadn’t realised how far behind I was!) and I’ve been watching films, listening to music, and doing other stuff like that.
Most of all, I’ve been writing. I would love to say that The Truth About Death is coming along nicely but I have 4 pesky children who won’t do as their told, but I can say that Frienemy has been submitted to a writing competition (I do not expect to win).
And that’s pretty much it — I spent the first 2 months in defence and the next 2 months in suspense, and I’ve had 4 weeks of getting back to feeling like myself — I feel great.
Recently, I’ve started to see that described whilst in lieu of care to be the final convulses of a dying man — their actions and inactions, and words, were just the final spasms upon a life well lived, nothing more. They saw him off but they weren’t the ones to kill him.
Seeing it this way satisfies the writer in me. I see Old me lying dead at my feet — expired when served his P45 — and New me standing over him a little stronger, a little wiser, and a little more grown. It’s like the whole rising Phoenix thing but with corpses and a solid soul.
Now, with some nice time to reflect on things — from my love of the job to the party I had when I got my P45 — I realise that death itself is what was killing me. It gave me so much and it brought me so much, and I gave so much in return — but I needed life.
Death’s a killer
Besides, I can’t forget my 51.5 hours in LA to see Betty White — if that wasn’t a call for life then I don’t know what it was; I’ve long dubbed it my ‘mid-30th year crisis’.
So my leaving the funeral home, I figure, was always a sure bet — Old me was dying, you see, from death — and along came things and then they finished him off. It’s funny, I don’t remember much of the 4 months prior to my 4 weeks off — they’re a vague dark blur — but I suppose that’s what comes with death; poor Old me and his distant memories.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow.