Inside the car, looking out.
The owner of the shop worked at the desk next to me today. Under the new reduced hours there are only two of us in the shop at any time. He mentioned it was cold.
“Yes,” I said from inside my cocoon of fleece jacket, pullover, shirt, thermal vest and vest. “It is isn’t it.”
“That,” he said, “will be because we only have heaters in the other two rooms.”
“Yes,” I said, pulling my woolly hat further down on my head. “That would be correct.”
We have heaters in the front room and the back room – the two he tends to work in. The middle room can be a bit parky, as my grandparents used to say. By the time it is time for home I often feel drained of heat, and sometimes I never warm up again in the evening. Not that I’m one to complain . . .
Sometimes the light comes straight down the road, but we are a few weeks past that time.
The truth is that much as I like the company and the money I’m not going to miss work as much as I feared I might. Next year when I’m sat in nice warm bungalow writing poetry and planning my assault on the world of literature, I’m not going to miss work at all. I will have enough money to live on and enough is all you need. Too much just brings problems. I will also have all the human contact I need as Julia and my sister combine to boss me about and criticise my diet, dress sense and lack of activity.
One thing I definitely won’t miss is sitting in that middle room watching frost form on my thermals.
Photos are from Julia. She took them while we were on our way to work.
I like the explosion of gold but she thinks it is too much of a good thing.
