Sometimes I can't believe how long it has been since I last wrote a blog post, and today is one of those times. I mean, almost a year? And what have I actually achieved in that time?
I'm still working for the old chap who prompted that last, angst-ridden post. We still get on fine, no issues. Well, the only issue is that he currently has Covid; he came back from a mini-cruise with his son and daughter-in-law last week, and they all have it. There are personal reasons why I haven't been able to visit. I am doubled vaccinated, but I can't risk passing it to certain members of my family... I'll skip over the details, but I have had some time off, and another carer has taken over. I'm back to work tomorrow, although looking after M still doesn't really feel like work. I look after another old person too now, just for an hour a week, and I've had a couple of other care jobs over the last year, which have fizzled out now.
Because what I have discovered is that although I am very caring, in some ways I am too caring. I get too emotionally involved, the work of caring takes its toll on my physical health. I am approaching my mid-fifties, I really need a sedentary job. (I had a full-time job for a couple of months on Census 2021 this year, as well as caring for M. I was 'in the field' knocking on doors, asking why people hadn't returned their census forms. I thought the work would make me fit, I now realise I have gone past that stage. It half-killed me.)
Back to the point of this post. The other week, a carpenter came to the house to do some work. He'd been before to do another job. He had worked incredibly hard the first time, and he charged £200 for the day which I felt was fair enough, although steep. I have only ever earned anything near that amount once in my life, and it was for three days only. Tradesmen of any kind are expensive though, I know that, and as I said, fair play to them.
But the next time, he worked for only two and a half hours, then said he was going to call it half a day, announced that his day rate was £220 and that half a day would be £120. I nearly fell over. I did speak up, telling him that he'd arrived at nine and it was now only half past eleven, and that wasn't actually half a day. I mean, he hadn't even finished the job; he'd said he wanted to get home as his cousin was staying.
So anyway, the carpenter said he didn't want to upset me, and so he'd call it £100, which I stumped up, somewhat resentfully. But he's a good chap, I mean I don't think he intended to rip me off, so I had him back once more for what I hope is the final time. I checked the daily rate before he came, it was back to £200. I specified that I wanted him to finish the job he'd left half done the last time, as well as the main job. And he did what he said he would, and that is the end of that. At least for now; because in fact I might need his help again, but it won't be for at least six months because I have run out of funds.
The point of this long-winded story is the thing that occurred to me while I was mulling it all over, as I have done a few times since. Because the carpenter did tell me the charge for his work in all innocence, I am sure of that. If he wants to call two and a half hours of work half a day and charge accordingly, he believes he is entitled to do so. He knows the value of his labour.
At no point does this young man think; I am only young, I can't charge £200 (or £220) for a day's work. Nor at any stage does he say to himself, I can't be a carpenter, I should be a carer or a cleaner. No, he trained to be a carpenter, he has the tools, thus he carpentizes (yes, I know it's ungrammatical, I think it's amusing) and he charges accordingly. And people like me think, fair play to him, I am fair game, this is what it costs me to get this work done.
And I drew a parallel. Why, I asked myself, do I never think like that about my trade? Why when people ask what I do, do I say I am a carer, or a home-maker? Why, when I do admit to being a writer, am I then too embarrassed to say I write about mental health, why do I tell people that my novel isn't very good, then let them know that I don't actually do much writing, because I procrastinate a lot of the time? Come to that, why do I procrastinate? Why don't I finish my projects?
I need to change. I quite often say that in this blog. I say, I am going to write more, or I am going to campaign about mental health more, or do a MA in mental health law, or an MA in novel writing (I actually did do that one). I am prone to calling myself to arms. And then a year later, I find my last blog post, in which I resolved to do whatever, and I realise that I haven't done it, or not really, or not properly.
What annoys me is that this inability to follow things through is supposed to be a trait of 'schizophrenia'. I mean, as if half the population haven't started novels then not finished them, or gone in one direction and then tried another... I mean, it's human behaviour. But because I read that it's supposed to be a 'schizophrenic' trait, I will conquer it in the end, because I don't want to prove 'them' right.
I mean, I have followed a lot of stuff through. I have raised a family of four children, I have been Kennel Club registered to breed puppies, I have published a number of books and there is probably more than this to add. I've held various jobs down over the years. I have definitely achieved some stuff.
But I still thrash and drift, I don't apply myself to the thing I feel I am here for. I don't stand up and say 'I am a writer', and more importantly, I don't write enough words. I am dissatisfied with my output.
I hope that, a year from now, I'll have made some real progress. Because the stupid thing is, I have a sedentary job. I have a trade. In fact, I have a vocation. And now that my other vocation, that great pull on my heart and my time, motherhood, is pretty much over and done, I can concentrate on the other thing that matters.
Almost a year later, it's time to write some words.
