Today was my last day working at the plant centre. After ten years of alternate weekend working it felt like time for a change. The idea had been knocking around in my head for a while. When the everyday begins to pall, and the minor details start to irritate you, it's generally time for a change of scene. There were a couple of incidents that crystallised my decision, as there usually are in such cases. For the Systems Administrator it was a barrage of abuse from a dealer on the fixed interest desk. Mid-winter is a good time to stop, anyway, since there's little plant based action in January, just stock taking and creosoting, and it gives the owners time to recruit a replacement before the spring rush starts.
The question is, what to do next? Starting from my front door and looking for horticultural based employers, there is the lettuce farm, the about-to-open branch of a landscaping company that seems to have been growing solidly to judge from their website, and the Chatto gardens, and that's within a two mile radius. There's the woodland charity I've been volunteering for for a decade. There's Thompson and Morgan in Ipswich, one of my former plant centre colleagues and Writtle alumni works there. Or I could take a year out and make a concerted effort to break into freelance garden journalism. I could even do people's gardens. I'm not very good at starting lawn mowers, but could be just the right person for ageing plant lovers, who want somebody that won't chop down their tree peony.
Before even going through tangible employment options, I need to work out what I want from work. Nobody goes into horticulture to become rich, that's for sure. But do I mind weekend working? I miss some social events because of it, but I've got used to having time off mid-week. It fits in well with seeing some friends for whom weekends are family time, and as the SA is basically retired we can see each other any day of the week. Would I be happy with five mornings a week? The SA thought it would fit in well with the garden, which it would, but not so much with jaunts with friends or expeditions to London galleries. Should I go back to full time work for a while, since the garden is relatively under control, and full time jobs tend to be better quality than part time? How much does it matter knowing in advance which my working days will be? Possibly quite a lot, or rather, it suits me very well to be able to arrange not to be working on particular days when I want to do something else. Do I want to use more of my executive capabilities than I did as a plant centre assistant? Or am I happy with skilled manual work that brings me into direct contact with plants and lots of time spent outside? What do I feel about travel? If the quid pro quo of a stimulating job involving meetings, presentations and negotiations is hours spent grinding around East Anglia's dire trunk roads in the rain and fog, it might not be worth it. Could I afford to not work at all, or at least give something really wacky a try and see how it went?
The thing I am sure of is that life should be lived well. The English middle classes are masters of deferred gratification. It's been identified as a strong predictor in children for success in later life, how long they can hold off eating a sweet if they're told they'll get a second treat by waiting. Work hard at the right school and you can go to the right university, which gets you on to the right graduate training scheme, then into the right job, at which you will work extremely hard. You might end up with a house and a pension, and be able to enjoy your retirement in security. Or you might not. The one known, amidst all the unknowns and insecurity, is that your life is ticking by whatever you do.
As a child it feels as though there is still ages of time ahead. Accidents happen to other people, the boy in my primary class who was knocked off his bicycle and killed, the girl at my convent school who had a fatal asthma attack, the two people in my year who committed suicide shortly after leaving school. Then a school friend's lovely boyfriend who died in a car crash en route to the airport, the school twenty year reunion bringing the news that the sweetest girl in the class had died of breast cancer. Melanoma, myeloma, pancreatic cancer, brain tumour, mysterious virus, dropping dead of a heart attack. As you go through your forties and into your fifties, you see members of your own cohort, and people only a decade older, begin to go. Life is precious, and not a given. Each day should be spent well, with purpose and dignity. Work is a significant part of how you spend your waking hours. It doesn't have to be grand, but it should be satisfying.
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