I always imagined I would work until I dropped off the peg or at least turned 65. Sadly fate - and a rather unpleasant person in senior management - did not share this assumption and about a year ago I found myself in my mid-50s sitting on my bum at home wondering what I was going to do next given that no one will give me a job doing what I know how to do really well.
As a journalist writing has been a massive part of my everyday life for decades and, despite having a Facebook page on which I stalk my kids, as well as a deep affection for email, I've decided I need another outlet for the words I no longer get paid to write. Hence, this blog - and the book that I've been writing, just like every other unemployed "freelance" journalist in the world.
I'd also like to chronicle, for myself at least, the next phase in my life as I try and work out what I'm going to do with myself, particularly now my husband Gorgeous George and I are living on one wage while still having a mortgage and three cats, a dog and two goldfish to support.
Besides, I think it's time for me to explore this blogging stuff, even though my techie son, True Geek, has pointed out that if I am doing it, that means it is totally "yesterday" and about to die a miserable death. According to my kids the demise of Facebook is also imminent purely because I happen to have an account - which would be sad because some weeks it is the only way I know what they are doing and where they are.
Bertie the dog is happy though. I am home, able to open the door for him to come and go as he wishes. He is asleep on his cushion next to me, secure in the knowledge that all is right in his world. Now I just have to figure how to upload photos.
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