Time To Go
I didn’t enjoy my last day at the video company. Saying my goodbyes to the many professionals that I’d admired and respected proved unexpectedly emotional, especially to one particular soul mate who’d lost her father in similar circumstances. Several colleagues said nice things about my work, thanked me for my contribution over the years and wished me well. I savoured their accolades and sentiments. It felt good to have been part of such a committed and successful team. Like a rugby second row forward, who’d just played his last game in a long and distinguished career, I was about to hang up my boots.
Just when I thought my misery could get no worse, the moment came for me to hand over my project files and the keys to my beloved Volvo 940. I realised suddenly that these were the end points of yet more fond relationships, in a long succession of comparable end points in recent days. From now on, I had no purpose or reason to be on the video company’s premises. It was time for me to leave.
As a friend drove me out of the car park and south towards an uncertain future, I glanced over my shoulder at the past. Perhaps my father had also looked back on that fateful day all those years ago, unsure if he’d made the right decision, with a tear in his eye, wishing that he could have his time again and reverse some pretty stupid decisions. I’ll probably never know.
As the greens and browns of Cumbria flashed past my window, I had plenty of time to reflect on the sacrifices that had been necessary to turn mad dreams into dubious realities. I could only hope that they’d prove worthwhile, for they were exacting a terrible toll on my emotions.
My brother and his wife threw a ‘going away’ party for us the following day, Saturday 28 May. They'd invited family and friends, some of whom we hadn't seen for years. Everyone got on well, and I recall the warmth of people's sentiments about our escape to the sun. In a moment of sublime extravagance towards the end of the evening, we agreed to meet in Cyprus in eighteen months time, to celebrate my fortieth birthday.
The following Monday was another emotionally draining day, one that I shall never forget. Having said ‘auf wiedershen’ far too many times over the previous twenty-four hours, I swung myself into the driving seat of our Volvo 240 for the last time. With tears streaming down my face, I turned the key in the ignition.
As the big engine turned over and sparked into life, images of Tiger and Snowy flooded my mind. Like the Ghost of Christmas Future, I could see myself hovering behind them, looking through the lounge window of our house, at me driving away. They asked me in an innocent child-like manner where I was going, when I was coming back, and whether I still loved them. They also wanted to know what they had done that was bad enough to make me want to leave like this. I didn’t answer; I couldn’t. I knew that I’d never see them again. Like an embarrassing inconvenience, I’d abandoned them so that I could start a new life elsewhere. Oh, how I hoped that my father felt as guilty twenty years ago as I did that day, and have done ever since.
My initial journey east that Monday was mainly one of reflection and self-recrimination. An hour later, my tears had dried and a semblance of decorum had returned. My eyes were still red and puffy though. In a rare lighter moment, the splendid irony of what was about to happen struck me. Part of my dream had always been to spend June, July and August of each year in England, enjoying my homeland’s most pleasant months. Then, in September, I’d fly away to spend the remainder of the year on some Mediterranean shore. So why was it then that I was about to go to the Mediterranean in June? The small self-derision helped to lift my spirits slightly and enjoy the company of my splendid brother in law and his wife.
Having settled Rob and Anne with their aunt and uncle, Allie and I drove north. Later that day, we deposited our Volvo in the long-stay car park at East Midland’s Airport and unloaded a small mountain of luggage from it. The number of suitcases we were apparently taking ‘on holiday’ astounded the minibus driver taking us to the departure lounge. He wished us good fortune at the check-in desk and hoped that we’d escape the hefty excess baggage charges he anticipated there. Apparently, some sort of a purge was underway.
As it turned out, the conscientious desk clerk was more concerned with the electrical goods we were carrying than the weight of our cases. Foolishly perhaps, I admitted to having packed a Walkman and two small speakers in the bowels of one suitcase, to provide me with some entertainment in the lonely nights ahead. However, I couldn’t remember which one. The security threat posed by my music system necessitated a thorough search for the offending items, not to mention a significant amount of re-packing. The trouble was that the clerk had already started to process our tickets, so she asked me to remain on one side of the queue whilst I searched, rather than go to the back.
Fellow travellers saw my honesty about the Walkman as a sign of weakness and scuffed past my increasingly dishevelled pile of belongings. This made my hunt much more difficult and, seeing my predicament, the clerk invited them to retreat, which proved impossible. Six passengers had already filled the gap between the clerk and me, whilst the remainder of the long queue had shuffled relentlessly forward to take their places. Those travellers now crammed against me made their feelings known about my disarray. I could only wonder how many of them had electrical goods in their bags that they’d now conveniently forgotten.
Like all of life’s discomforts around this time, this one was entirely of my own making, and highly embarrassing. Perhaps I should have foreseen the chaos that I’d cause at ‘check-in’ and carried my electrical goods in my hand baggage. After all, it wasn’t as if I was a novice air traveller. Apart from my time in the Armed Forces, and our annual holidays abroad since, I’d flown on business-trips numerous times.
A while later, with our boarding cards tucked safely in our passports, we found ourselves sitting quietly in the departure lounge. Supping cups of tea to bind our frayed nerves, Allie and I watched anxious people trudge here and there, some publicly re-packing their most intimate holiday clothes alongside the check-in queues.
With time on my hands, I reflected once again on Tiger and Snowy’s plight. I’d been the only member of my family not to want cats, and yet I seemed to have formed the strongest bonds with them. Despite all the bloody wrestling matches during worming, all the cursing and swearing during flea removal and all the pathetic meowing during trips to the vet’, I loved them both. I could only hope that they still loved me.
Just when I thought my misery could get no worse, the moment came for me to hand over my project files and the keys to my beloved Volvo 940. I realised suddenly that these were the end points of yet more fond relationships, in a long succession of comparable end points in recent days. From now on, I had no purpose or reason to be on the video company’s premises. It was time for me to leave.
As a friend drove me out of the car park and south towards an uncertain future, I glanced over my shoulder at the past. Perhaps my father had also looked back on that fateful day all those years ago, unsure if he’d made the right decision, with a tear in his eye, wishing that he could have his time again and reverse some pretty stupid decisions. I’ll probably never know.
As the greens and browns of Cumbria flashed past my window, I had plenty of time to reflect on the sacrifices that had been necessary to turn mad dreams into dubious realities. I could only hope that they’d prove worthwhile, for they were exacting a terrible toll on my emotions.
My brother and his wife threw a ‘going away’ party for us the following day, Saturday 28 May. They'd invited family and friends, some of whom we hadn't seen for years. Everyone got on well, and I recall the warmth of people's sentiments about our escape to the sun. In a moment of sublime extravagance towards the end of the evening, we agreed to meet in Cyprus in eighteen months time, to celebrate my fortieth birthday.
The following Monday was another emotionally draining day, one that I shall never forget. Having said ‘auf wiedershen’ far too many times over the previous twenty-four hours, I swung myself into the driving seat of our Volvo 240 for the last time. With tears streaming down my face, I turned the key in the ignition.
As the big engine turned over and sparked into life, images of Tiger and Snowy flooded my mind. Like the Ghost of Christmas Future, I could see myself hovering behind them, looking through the lounge window of our house, at me driving away. They asked me in an innocent child-like manner where I was going, when I was coming back, and whether I still loved them. They also wanted to know what they had done that was bad enough to make me want to leave like this. I didn’t answer; I couldn’t. I knew that I’d never see them again. Like an embarrassing inconvenience, I’d abandoned them so that I could start a new life elsewhere. Oh, how I hoped that my father felt as guilty twenty years ago as I did that day, and have done ever since.
My initial journey east that Monday was mainly one of reflection and self-recrimination. An hour later, my tears had dried and a semblance of decorum had returned. My eyes were still red and puffy though. In a rare lighter moment, the splendid irony of what was about to happen struck me. Part of my dream had always been to spend June, July and August of each year in England, enjoying my homeland’s most pleasant months. Then, in September, I’d fly away to spend the remainder of the year on some Mediterranean shore. So why was it then that I was about to go to the Mediterranean in June? The small self-derision helped to lift my spirits slightly and enjoy the company of my splendid brother in law and his wife.
Having settled Rob and Anne with their aunt and uncle, Allie and I drove north. Later that day, we deposited our Volvo in the long-stay car park at East Midland’s Airport and unloaded a small mountain of luggage from it. The number of suitcases we were apparently taking ‘on holiday’ astounded the minibus driver taking us to the departure lounge. He wished us good fortune at the check-in desk and hoped that we’d escape the hefty excess baggage charges he anticipated there. Apparently, some sort of a purge was underway.
As it turned out, the conscientious desk clerk was more concerned with the electrical goods we were carrying than the weight of our cases. Foolishly perhaps, I admitted to having packed a Walkman and two small speakers in the bowels of one suitcase, to provide me with some entertainment in the lonely nights ahead. However, I couldn’t remember which one. The security threat posed by my music system necessitated a thorough search for the offending items, not to mention a significant amount of re-packing. The trouble was that the clerk had already started to process our tickets, so she asked me to remain on one side of the queue whilst I searched, rather than go to the back.
Fellow travellers saw my honesty about the Walkman as a sign of weakness and scuffed past my increasingly dishevelled pile of belongings. This made my hunt much more difficult and, seeing my predicament, the clerk invited them to retreat, which proved impossible. Six passengers had already filled the gap between the clerk and me, whilst the remainder of the long queue had shuffled relentlessly forward to take their places. Those travellers now crammed against me made their feelings known about my disarray. I could only wonder how many of them had electrical goods in their bags that they’d now conveniently forgotten.
Like all of life’s discomforts around this time, this one was entirely of my own making, and highly embarrassing. Perhaps I should have foreseen the chaos that I’d cause at ‘check-in’ and carried my electrical goods in my hand baggage. After all, it wasn’t as if I was a novice air traveller. Apart from my time in the Armed Forces, and our annual holidays abroad since, I’d flown on business-trips numerous times.
A while later, with our boarding cards tucked safely in our passports, we found ourselves sitting quietly in the departure lounge. Supping cups of tea to bind our frayed nerves, Allie and I watched anxious people trudge here and there, some publicly re-packing their most intimate holiday clothes alongside the check-in queues.
With time on my hands, I reflected once again on Tiger and Snowy’s plight. I’d been the only member of my family not to want cats, and yet I seemed to have formed the strongest bonds with them. Despite all the bloody wrestling matches during worming, all the cursing and swearing during flea removal and all the pathetic meowing during trips to the vet’, I loved them both. I could only hope that they still loved me.
posted by Hawkeye at 7:57 am
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