Paul 2.0

Thirty years in a clerical job, counting money in the early years, granting mortgages in middle years, and latterly doing weird things with spreadsheets. That lifestyle ensures you end up with nice soft hands, perfect for some things but not the kind of skin needed for outdoor work.

I'm driving a golf cart laden with painting supplies and tools; a far cry from shining a desk with pin-striped sleeves but I am enjoying the difference. The tourist resort of Cavendish is a forty-two kilometer drive north through rolling countryside. I see fields which only a few weeks ago were under feet of snow, now red and neatly ploughed. Distant glimpses of the sea over every hill crest then sweeping down to bridges across sparkling harbours. A very different commute from my British experiences fifteen years ago.

I spend my days lifting, carrying, mending and painting; digging, lopping, trimming and cutting; cleaning, building and dumping. I go home hot tired and sore. My jeans and t shirts are smothered in paint, I stink of paint thinner and bug spray, I have a hole in my palm where I jabbed a screwdriver; a dent in my nail where I folded a step ladder on it; and sunburned legs - yes calves like lobsters.

This is Paul 2.0 and although I ache in places where I didn't even know I had places, I am enjoying summer outdoors: howling winds that whip the paint right off your brush and into your face; cold rain that numbs your fingers, giving way to scorching sun that dries your eyes and burns your neck; mosquitoes which settle around you in a black cloud, zing in your ear and pierce your soft skin.

Susan calls me a rough, tough, cream puff. She's about right.

Cautiously Pessimistic

I used to know all the smart tricks the above phone can pull but already the buttons look somewhat confusing. Now it sits silently on my old desk in a dead office, hard to believe it was once such an important communication tool. I always hated the irritating little trill it made anyway so I’m glad that gadget has lost its voice.

Fitting perfectly in the world lasts for a few optimum years. The rest of the time you fight against being too young or out of date. I’m no longer too young and I’m not yet out of date so that makes me in my prime. Doesn’t it? I am a cautious chap and I know my limitations – I say I am a realist. Someone recently told me a pessimist defends himself by saying he is a realist. I guess that makes me cautiously pessimistic. WOW, I’m far too exciting…

Some days I am really smart, I see everything in razor sharp focus and all those obscure concepts become crystal clear. Other days I can’t see my hand in front of my face and I forget how the kettle works. Sometimes I need complete silence so my own thoughts can deafen me but the next day I need loud music so those thoughts can’t intrude.

No two days are alike. So is that good or bad, unpredictable or challenging? Today I want to write but I am wordless and I have a feeling this may last a while. I am still winding down from the rat-race and the process seems to involve days of frantic activity and insomnia followed by sleeping a great deal and a mind devoid of creativity.

No point in forcing the words when the words won’t flow so I am going to change tack for a few days. I am going out on Thursday with my camera to let the pictures do the talking and pretend I’m not looking at words. Maybe then they’ll come out to play. Could be prose, poetry, or journal but I’ll recognise it when it comes into my head. I have a photographic memory but what use is it when I keep leaving the lens cap on.

Just so you know, I have a row of eight cut jade tortoises on a string marching across my desk. I think they bring good luck.

Dignified Exit

How do you bow out gracefully when you don't feel very gracious? The bustling hectic office became quiet and treacherous. Having been sent firmly to Coventry for undisclosed reasons, this final month has tested my stamina to the max. I have had little or no work to do for three months and time has hung heavily. Imagine the convicted inmate on Death Row with ten days until his execution and only four cell walls for company. Every tick of the clock is amplified, every minute an hour.

It finally hit me at the weekend - I don't need to do this. I don't need to be laughed at behind cupped hands. Accordingly I drove to work as usual this morning, emptied my desk of personal belongings and announced my departure. After twenty nine years slaving for the same employer this was not the way I would have chosen to leave but I felt backed into a corner. Too much time and not enough to do is an unhealthy mix.

My doc will supply me with a certificate to prevent deductions from my pay. Twenty nine years ago I wore a suit for the first time and travelled proudly to work on a double-decker bus wearing shiny black shoes and a sober tie. Today I sat at my desk for the final time between 9a.m. and 10a.m. wearing leather jacket and trainers. Those who bothered to look would have noticed I shaved my head over the weekend.

At 10:01 a.m. I said goodbye to my friend and left the office.