The future is bright, the future is daunting

I am in receipt of my P45. It is official: I am unemployed. My future is my own making. What is that? Don’t know. I’ve got time. I don’t plan to die just yet, but then who does?

Un-em-ployed. Should I sound the word aloud a hollow befalls my stomach. That’s reality, that is. Sinking in. That’s fear and zeal. That’s knowing that I’m not turning back. That one way or another, SUCCESS! Come hell or high water. I don’t like being cold and I can swim. That must count towards something.

So what am I going to do? There has to be some form of plan, some little idea of something…

Thankfully, there is. First things first, sorting out my life.

I’m 33, I can’t drive, and I live in a shithole flat. I’ve also put on weight, have this anxiety to write, and am socially awkward. Oh, and I have vertigo migraines that are a pain in the arse. Proper catch, me. So to sort out my life I need to be 33, can drive, and live in a polished turd. I also need to lose the weight, overcome this anxiety, and embrace my outward awkward.

Some bits are easier said than done.


Theory test, PASSED! Get in! I’m very proud of myself.

Driving lessons & test, TBC. Still. I need a minute here. I’m finding the whole prospect quite daunting and I’m using this as an excuse.


7 years of accumulated crap, TIPPED! I could squeeze out one more visit to the tip, though. I’ve found a few things that I don’t know why I kept them. An ugly 6ft lamp that doesn’t work. A metal broom that looks like the Hulk’s been twisting it. It can’t be used. It doesn’t work. Another box. I sure liked boxes.

Home order — everything placed, NEARLY! I’ve sorted out the books and the wardrobe is now being used as a wardrobe. I have loads of DVDs to sort through and get rid (I just don’t have space or a DVD player). Important paperwork, filed. Tools, batteries, stationery, other assorted things — all have homes someplace.

Cleaning, SCRUBBING! Everything is getting pulled out, wiped down, and put back as I type. Not physically as I type. I’m having a break to write this. My mate Jackie is here with her marigolds and bleach. “It’s an easy job,” I said. 3 hours later, 3/4s of 2 rooms done! Ha ha, I’m a little liar sometimes.


I may not mind how heavy I am (12 stone! I nearly fainted) but I have fat bits that wobble and I would like them to stop wobbling. Chest, stomach — when the washing machine is on spin it’s like I’m the Jelly Man, here to hypnotise the innocent.

Jackie and I are discussing starting swimming. She’s one of these determined, do-it-now types, so this is likely to turn into going soon.

Writing anxiety

I want to write. I sit down to write. I physically write. And then I edit. After the first word, edit. The second word, edit. By the time I write a paragraph, edit. I edit that bit. Yeah, I edit it good.

Because I edit: I want to write. I sit down to write. I can’t write. I haven’t the words to express a thought.

Over and over, same old bullshit. It’s quite frustrating. I figure I lack confidence in the thoughts I have and the words I type. I figure I should keep at it — aim to write simply. Simple words simply said.

Social awkwardness

I have this tendency to be a little shy. People will think this preposterous. They know me to be outspoken. But I am shy when I’m on the back foot. Also, a lot of my gob is to distract from the fact that I don’t know small talk. I’m crap at it. I dread the hairdressers.

None of this is helped by the truth that after a while I tire of company. I like my own space, my own peace. There’s no need to make conversation. I quite like silence. Don’t mind it at all.

When I’m with friends I say random things so that’s going to have to be the way forward. Random. I don’t know what to say but I need to say something = random. Unfortunately, this will often mean that I’ll be deemed ‘bad taste’. Oh well, that’s kind’a who I am.

Second things second, employment.

I know what I don’t want to do. That’s something. I don’t want to work in a call centre. I don’t know why I did, I don’t like the ringing phone. And I don’t particularly want to work in another funeral home. After The Co-op, I’m kind’a put-off.

I want to do something I can enjoy. I want to do something I can get my teeth into and that doesn’t feel like work. I want passion. I want the world.

Before I can have anything I need to learn to drive. Once I can drive my choices will increase a million-fold. I need to keep telling myself this. I need to keep saying it. Once I can drive, sorted.

It’s just that it’s a very big wide world out there and I’m used to such a small tiny place. I never know what to do with space. Fill it with boxes maybe, but I never want to get into that predicament again. Bloody boxes.

I’ll ease myself into this.

First things first, second things second.


Thank you for reading! Your eye glances mean the world xx

Tomos James