I was talking the other day in a post about the sense of community we’re finding just as we leave – remember the jazz dancing neighbours spinning off lamp posts and the pimping out I’m doing of John? – in a similar way, just as I resign and prepare to bugger off for a rather long time, my job starts to get really exciting (as opposed to just exciting which clearly it is on a daily basis all you colleagues reading this), things are starting to happen, interesting people are appearing left, right and centre – money is almost literally being thrown in my direction, unfortunately not the sort of money I can use in Topshop or for buying ludicrously expensive moisturisers. It’s generally speaking public money – the kind that can only be spent on public good and positive outcomes for disadvantaged people. Our finance director won’t let me spend it on positive outcomes for my wardrobe which I feel is putting me into the disadvantaged bracket.
So because it’s exciting times, I’m starting to panic yet again that now’s not the time to go. That now is infact the time to stay. That if I come back I will be back to square one. That, horror of horrors – I will be FORGOTTEN. I decide I need to compose a Wilfred Owen style poem to myself.
Before I can begin writing ‘dulce et decorem est pro resign and go travelling’, someone gives me some good advice: ‘Don’t panic, you are only stepping off the escalator and you’ll be able to step back on it if you want to.’
Yes, I think triumphantly, women step off that escalator all the time to have babies. I did. I put away the valium feeling renewed and confident. Then I am reminded that just two weeks after having Lula I was phoning up my work husband and begging him, literally begging him, to give me some work or be responsible for my being sectioned.
How, I wonder, will stepping off the escalator be any different this time? Other than John having to negotiate the Indian mental health system and not the British one, in order to have me sectioned. But I look out the window and it’s not even 5pm and it’s pitch dark outside and my breath is condensing around me and I think screw that escalator, maybe I can find a nicer, sunnier, slower moving escalator in Bali. And if not I can always skype my work husband and beg for work. Or, plan b, drip feed myself valium.