Lynne Patrick
Sometimes I feel as if I stepped on a treadmill a few months ago and can’t figure out how to stop the damn thing. Don’t get me wrong; I love what I do and can’t imagine not doing it. But anyone who runs their own show will tell you they have the toughest boss in the world, and people who think being self-employed means you can take days or weeks off when the mood grabs you simply don’t understand the situation. Juggling and plate-spinning are analogies I’ve worked to death. Time off has to be carefully planned for, threaded in between deadlines.
But later today – just as soon as I’ve clicked the mouse enough times to get this post out to where people can read it – I get to stop for three whole days. We’ll throw a bag in the boot of the car, jump into the front seats, take off into the mid-morning sun (or more likely drizzle) and head for a small hotel in a town in mid-Wales that hardly anyone has heard of and only the natives can pronounce.
We were supposed to go last week, but husband sprang a virus which made him feel dog-rough and made him cough in a way which would not have endeared him to fellow guests. Fortunately there was a gap in the diary this week as well (though it does seem to have filled up in the past 24 hours). Even more fortunately, the guys who run the small hotel are understanding and flexible, and changed the reservation with not a hint of an exasperated sigh.
We spent a few days there a couple of years ago, and it was a delight. The bedrooms are comfortable, the lounge is like somebody’s living room and dinner is for residents only. There’s no menu; Roy, the chef, cooks a five-course dinner constructed around the likes and dislikes of that night’s guests, requested and recorded when you make the booking. So I can be certain I won’t be faced with tuna, coconut or rare roast beef; and chances are high there’ll be chocolate in there somewhere.
Here in Derbyshire, where I’ve lived for the past mptymumble years, one of the little bits of linguistic shorthand which marks out five-generation locals from us incomers is a phrase which usually comes out on a Friday afternoon, when the end of the working week is in sight. “I’m ready!” they say, meaning, “I’ve had enough of this office/factory/warehouse/building site for the time being, and I need to walk away from it for a while. Give me a couple of days and I’ll be back with renewed energy, but for the moment I just need to stop.”
Forgive the brevity of this post. My excuse is that I’m ready. I’m really, really ready.
