Day One ...

"Skiver."

 

"What?"

"You're a bloomin' skiver, you are," said Lyn, with what appeared to be a broad smile. It was difficult to tell sometimes, her mouth consisted of roughly five crooked yellowing teeth and on this occasion at least three of them were obstructed by a cold sore the size of a grown man's fist.

I'd have taken offense, but she was only taking the mick and it was difficult to dislike Lyn. She was cranky and moaned about the most mundane things, as any lady of her age does. She appeared older than she actually was, as far as I know she was in her early 50s but resembled someone 20 years older. Her witch like voice cracked at the end of each sentence reaching decibels only bats could hear, especially when she decided to sing, which was often. Her long, unkempt gray hair was beginning to fade around her crown and she would leave a trace of it behind wherever she went, along with a peculiar odour of stale cabbage.

But I liked her, she didn't care what anyone else thought of her and she was bursting with character. We got on like a house on fire too, most of the time. But like houses on fire, at some point you have to extinguish it. I was at that stage and Lyn's presence was a constant reminder.

Let me explain. For the last half of 2012, probably longer, I had been working part time at a local petrol station/convenience shop/late night hangout for drunks, the same place I had worked for a period during my teens. I had taken the job because it had allowed me to pursue my writing career during the day, which was helpful, since I rarely saw a penny for any of the writing work I was doing.

It was all part of the plan, the plan that I had kicked into action at the end of the previous year. I had decided to swallow my pride, let the lease run out on my flat and move back in with my parents with the intention of saving. Saving for what? I wasn't sure but I had hoped that I would figure that part out later, in the meantime all I had to do was concentrate on my writing and creating. It seemed like a decent plan at the time, even if it meant moving back to my old home village.

Only it hadn't quite worked that way. It seems working freelance out of your childhood bedroom and spending 20 hours per week selling cigarettes and switching petrol pumps on isn't the most motivational environment, nor does it pay very well. In fact, I was in exactly the same position I was in ten years ago, my mam was even making my tea on most nights.

Lyn was right, I was indeed skiving. Well, she was referring to the fact that I had quit my job at the petrol station, but I had spent the last year, perhaps longer coasting and worst of all, I was making excuses for it.

Lyn, unfairly to her embodied everything I feared I would become. I don’t mean to belittle her, but if I didn't know any better, she lived in the shop; she was there when I clocked in and was there when I was clocking out. I couldn't stand being there more than six hours per day, it was a depressing environment, yet it was her life. She exuded so much pride when she described how thoroughly she scrubbed the drinks fridge during the night shift and happily recollected memories of her early jobs, in other 24/7 shops. It was honourable, she worked herself to the bone, but for some reason it would depress me to see her do so. Didn't she want more? One day she showed me a birthday card she was giving to a colleague; it was striking and obviously made with a great deal of care. 

 Imagine my surprise when she explained that she had made it herself, she was incredibly talented. It was something she did often and had wanted to take up as a profession, but 'never got around to it.'

That was my life, I couldn't be bothered, I was never getting around to things. I admired Lyn, but there was no way I was going to allow myself to say those words. At least Lyn made her cards as a hobby still.

It was no coincidence that I spontaneously applied for a position as an England exchange teacher in Japan, I began to have panic attacks and I needed to get away from Consett, no, I needed to get away from the country. That was what I would save for!

Unfortunately, a clerical error put paid to that before the thought of living in another continent with an unknown language was allowed to burrow into my head and cause me to meltdown. But it had been a kicker and with the end of the year just days away, it had set the wheels in motion. I didn't need to go anywhere, but I did have to get a move on. I was going to say goodbye to Lyn, quit the petrol station and turn the New Year into a massive cliché. Sure, I and everyone else says it every year, but I had decided that in 2013 I would apply myself, start the ball rolling and make this year my year. It would be ...

Twenty ThirtIAN!*

Read that aloud a few times, surely that's a sign? I couldn't get my name into 11 and 12, could I? Those years wanted nothing to do with Ian, but 13 bloody does! It's going to be brilliant, no skiving involved, no late nights and late rises, no more horrible eating and just sitting around, I might even catch an episode of Fraiser in the mornings. Yes, just pure bum kicking creativity and productivity, and lots more ivities. Lyn would be proud. 

I finished my final shift and woke up at 11am on the Monday morning, ready and raring to go. I brewed a cuppa, ate two pop tarts and switched the TV on. Fraiser had already finished and it began to rain outside. My computer had somehow loaded up Youtube and was showing me a video of a Northern man jumping on eggs.

I guess one more week of skiving won't hurt. Right?

And if all else fails, there's always Twenty FourtIAN.