Nerves. Not so bad that I’m shaking, but bad enough that my stomach is doing somersaults and debating if it wants to revisit my breakfast.
Why? Today I’m going to quit my job of five years. My job with a company I like. And people I like working with. Why indeed?
To pursue my dreams.
To finally do all the things I kept talking about, but failing to find time for.
To volunteer. To improve my Spanish beyond the ability to ask for food, accommodation, a bus and respond to any offers of horse-rental. To see more of the world. To try some alternative ways of making a living that don’t involve the 06.31 train to London on a semi-regular basis.
It’s been a long time planning. About eighteen months in fact. Those months of planning, saving … populating my bank account sufficiently to help banish the worries of my mum.
Even though I know I’m making the right choice for me, I feel slightly scared. I imagine this is how I look…
I’m at the door to my boss’s office. It’s just past nine on a Tuesday morning. “Have you got five minutes?” I say.
“I’m afraid I haven’t. I’m about to go to a meeting.”
Godamn it! Best laid plans and all that …
My stomach continues to churn for the rest of the day. The butterflies flutter.
Ten past five. He’s finally out of his meeting. I’m reminded that, thank heavens, my own days of never-ending meetings will soon be over.
Deep breaths. I walk into his office and start my well-prepared spiel.
The journey has begun …