I have learned a surprising new thing about myself.
Had anybody asked me – and indeed, people do, quite often – if I liked my job, I would have answered, believing myself to be entirely honest, that no, I hated it. I might even have come up with a list of all the things I hated about it, which would have been fairly short because mostly it is the customers.
Having been prohibited from working late night by my taxi-less state, I was miserable. I wasn’t bored, there are always dozens of things I can do, and indeed should do, but I was restless and discontented and grumpy. I did not in the least want to be at home, even in the company of Oliver and the dogs, whom I like. Well, I like Oliver. The dogs are all right as long as they are not under my feet. I almost fell over Roger Poopy when he was lying on the stairs the other day which he does when I am doing things both upstairs and down, in order to save him having to keep choosing where to go next. This is a recipe for disaster, and one day I will become the sort of statistic that people trot out in order to prove how non-lethal a disease is, because you have more chance of being killed by falling down the stairs.
I was no more cheerful when I woke up this morning, although I should have been, because after my early night I collapsed into an exhausted sleep and didn’t wake up for ten hours. Actually I was fairly cheerful, it is nice not to be tired.
All the same, the light seemed to have gone out of the day. With no half-past-five deadline for finishing things and getting ready for work, there seemed to be no hurry to accomplish anything, and I mooned about forgetting everything I was supposed to be doing. I even forgot the dusting, which I remembered tonight just as I was putting the clean sheets back on the bed. It is Clean Sheets Day and the house is still un-hoovered.
Oliver came with me to take the dogs over the fell this morning, which was nice. He is very tall and competent these days, in two years time he will be twenty, and fortunately have missed all the dreadful things our beloved new leaders are dreaming up to impose on the educational system next. It was in this morning’s newspaper that they are going to stop schools from booting out naughty children. It seems that it is unfair and discriminatory because mostly the naughty ones are also poor. A head teacher had commented acidly that the Government might do better if they tried to organise the economy so that there weren’t so many poor children, but fortunately it is not my problem any more. Ritalin Boy is the only family member in the education system now, and he did so splendidly well in his Common Entrance exams that he is going to go to a brilliant public school called Milton Abbey where they will not be taking any notice of educational fashions, but teach reading, writing, arithmetic and Latin, just like a proper school should.
When we came back I spent ages faffing about doing all of the things that I have got to do for the new Unlimited Ibbets Company, like changing telephone direct debits into the new bank account, and wondering where we are going to get some more money from, and then after a little while the telephone rang.
My taxi, the lady said, would be ready by five o’clock.
Readers, I can hardly tell you how happy I was. I cheered up immediately, what a splendid garage.
They are a little Hungarian outfit, hidden down one of Kendal’s back alleys, and mostly repairing cars belonging to other Hungarian people. Because of my taxi driver friend, I had been allowed to be an honorary Hungarian for the day, and they had rushed my taxi through as an emergency.
I dashed about getting my taxi picnic ready, singing as I went, and this is the surprising thing.
I had no idea that I liked my job. I thought I hated it. I thought I viewed it with disdain and dissatisfaction, but it would seem that this is not at all so.
I really do like my job.
In fact I am here on the taxi rank right now, as I write these very words.
What a splendid place to be.
