Well, that’s that then.
It’s all over.
At last.
Tomorrow life begins again.
Every minute of every test match as it happens, uninterrupted. Day after day. Every ball, every wicket, every run. Lunch at lunch, tea at tea. Supper at close of play. Every drop of rain and second of bad light. Bliss.
The perfect greenhouse. No green fly, black fly, aphids, rust… Nothing but sterile soil and amazingly healthy plants. Four types of tomatoes – Sungold, Soldacki, Sweet Million and Black Russian. Oh melons. Yes melons.
And the perfect lawn. No moss, no dandelions. I’ll get the old cylinder lawn mower sharpened, strip the engine. Then we’ll have lines on the lawn again. Damned hover mower, quick but useless. Manicured, that the word they use. That’s what I’ll have, manicured lawns with perfectly straight edges – trimmed. I’ll have time to trim the edges.
Time. Time to hoe and weed, time to dead head the roses, tie up, cut back, plant out and prune. Time to sit on the patio – after I’ve cleared out the weeds between the York stone – and gaze on the garden.
Time to sit with the crossword and a cup of coffee, knowing I never have to move until it’s finished. Knowing I won’t have anyone spluttering all over me on the train as I carefully fold back the page. Knowing I won’t have to re-gather my thoughts at lunchtime or on the evening train. No more being poked by umbrellas or tripped by those devilish briefcases on wheels. The person who invented those should be shot. No more delays and pathetic apologies that are words with no sincerity. No more barriers that always threaten to grab you in their pincers. No more ‘seek assistance’ when your Oyster card isn’t recognised.
And that bloody suit and tie can go. My father died in a tie. It won’t happen to me. A polo shirt, a roll-neck, an open-knecked shirt, but never a tie, never a tie. Shorts. I can wear shorts every day through the summer. It won’t matter. There will be no one to please. I’ve seen men wear them at the supermarket. What freedom. I’ll be free. No one to tell me what to do, no schedules, no targets, no mission statements. No reports. No reports. No reports means no wasted time on pointless papers that no one will read because it tells them things they have no desire to know. What a blessing.
Mmmmm. I can get up when it’s light in the morning! How I hate getting up and going out in the dark in the morning and watching the day break through the grime on a National Express train window. Express, surely that’s against trade descriptions. No more arriving home in the dark. No more going five days at a time for months when you never see your own home in daylight.
It’s desperate when you life is measured in the things you hate. The things it takes you decades to escape from, two thirds of your life. It’s grim when you spend the last years planning for your freedom. When you count down the final days and then can’t wait for the speeches to end and you are released for the last time, forever.
Freedom. Time to enjoy a gin on a Sunday knowing that you don’t have to get up on Monday for work. I’ll ban that word. No one in the house will be allowed to use it. From tomorrow, no, from now, from now there is no more work. Never, ever, again will I have to do anything don’t want to.
‘Don’t just sit there.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘You retire when I do. Pick up a tea towel.’
