I went to a drinks party in Dedham today. My hostess, somebody I met through the music society, asked me at the last concert how things were at the garden centre, and when I confessed that I didn't know, because I had stopped working there, she said that she was having a party but hadn't asked us, because she thought I'd be at work, so would we like to come? She is a nice, sparky woman, and I was delighted to be invited. And a very good party it turned out to be, with lots of amiable people, some of whom I knew, a non-stop supply of extremely tasty nibbles, and champagne practically on tap (or, for those of us who were driving, constant refills of sparkling elderflower cordial).
I'd already surmised she lived in one of the village's older and smarter houses, a hunch which was confirmed when I saw it was identified by name on the Dedham page of my Essex street atlas, and then when I saw it. it was lovely, well proportioned Georgian rooms very elegantly done out, interesting paintings, and a fabulous view over her garden, with snowdrops in the foreground and water meadows beyond, altogether much grander than chez cardunculus. And I enjoyed the chance to smarten up myself, in crepe trousers I can't wear at home because of the cats, ditto blouse in a very fine cotton and silk mix I daren't allow anywhere near claws, a loose tailored wool jacket, and the flamboyant silk and wool scarf I bought at the textile fair. So one way and another I had a thoroughly enjoyable time.
I can no longer remember whether this would have been a working weekend at the plant centre, but since last weekend I went to see my niece in the pantomime, I'd have been bound to miss one or the other event. Alternate weekend working is terribly socially limiting. I don't think my former employers ever gave any thought to it, or didn't care, quite how much their staff were missing out on, while they invited people to stay, went away themselves, rode, shot, hunted, nipped up to Snape or Aldeburgh to meet old friends, or went for Sunday lunch with their parents. I managed to take time off for major events like weddings, but in the past ten years I have been obliged to skip family get-togethers, parties, beekeeping meetings, country fairs, and garden open days, plus an unknown number of events like today's do that I wasn't even on the guest list for while I was working. And missed the start of other things, or arrived dirtier and more dishevelled than I'd have liked. Plus, if I was going out on a Saturday night, there was a fifty-fifty chance I'd have to be up again at six the following morning.
Of course lots of people work at weekends, and I am as happy as anyone else to avail myself of their services (I went to Waitrose this morning). But let us all, each time that on a Saturday or Sunday we fill up our car with petrol, do a supermarket shop, have lunch in a pub, go for a mooch down the High Street, take in an exhibition, catch up with some telephone banking or insurance, have tea in a cafe, or need to call the AA, or an ambulance, or visit the walk-in centre with the sore eye we scratched gardening, as we switch on the live news at lunchtime, while water keeps coming out of the tap and electricity out of the sockets (actually, I'm not sure that's quite how electricity works), as we enjoy all of these seven days a week amenities of modern life that we take for granted, let us remember the people making them all happen, who have friends and hobbies and families, and are quite possibly missing out on something else they'd like to have been doing.
And yes, I know that lots of professionals with desk jobs have to take work home with them at weekends at least sometimes. But I can testify that even if at some point over the weekend you have to run through a presentation, or finish a report, or do some marking, it is not the same as having to turn up at your place of work at eight o'clock on Saturday morning, knowing that you will be there for the next ten hours, and the same again on Sunday, and again in a fortnight's time. And the professionals are earning between twice and ten times as much as a plant centre assistant, or the young lad on the checkout as I bought my milk and bunch of flowers in the supermarket this morning.
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