C · READING
Apparently I'm retired now
"Freedom, it turns out, arrives unfurnished."
Six months ago I worked my last shift after forty-one years as a printer, and everyone had advice. Take it slowly, they said. Ideally, you should have a routine. Whatever you do, don't just sit at home. I nodded, went home, and - obviously - sat at home.
The first weeks were strange. I hardly slept, which surprised me; I'd assumed a man with nothing to wake up for would sleep like a millionaire. I still woke at ten to five, my body reporting for a shift that no longer existed. I'd lie there in the dark, listening to the flat tick, feeling - there's no dignified way to say this - nearly useless. My wife, who retired three years before me and has never once looked back, watched all this with the patience of a scientist observing a confused animal.
People kept asking how I was finding it, and I kept saying "fine", which was basically a lie. In fact I
I missed everything: the noise, the deadlines, the arguments about football, even the terrible coffee - especially the terrible coffee, oddly, because the coffee was where the people were. What I'd loved, apparently, was never the printing. Nobody tells you that in advance. They give you a card and a pen set at the end of your last day, and the card says Enjoy your freedom!, and freedom, it turns out, arrives unfurnished.
The turn came gradually, and - of course - by accident. In March my neighbour asked whether I could fix her sticking door, since I "was free". I fixed the door. Her sister, apparently, also had a door situation. By May I was the unofficial repairman of three streets; by June my wife was taking bookings and I hadn't yet accepted a single coin - payment arrives as lemon cake, tomato plants and gossip, a currency I'm growing rich in.