My life, for various reasons both outside and well within my control, didn’t turn out the way I expected it to. By the age of not yet 30 I was supposed to be an English teacher in a high school somewhere with a house and a little bit of land for some chickens. I was supposed to be preparing for a move to the country so I could have a couple of goats. I was supposed to be living a conventional life.
Well, that isn’t happening. I live, in an unusual set up, above my parents house where I’m building a little flat. I get up in the morning, not for work, but to walk the dog. I am, what I call, un-traditionally employed. The few people I do teach are either home schooled, aren’t performing as expected in the school they go to, or are retired and wanting to keep their brains in good order. The yard isn’t big enough for chickens and the land is too poor to grow any respectable amount of fruit or veggies.
The strange thing is, though, I’m fairly certain I’m happy. I get up and make the dough for the bread. I walk the dog and collect firewood. I come home and put the bread in the oven to cook while I feed the dog and clean the kitchen floors. I write for a bit, usually some ghost-written trash. I eat lunch with my mum and dad and who ever else has turned up – my brother moved out again 3 days before his 48th birthday. I prep my lessons and go and teach for a few hours, or if I’m not teaching I go into the basement to help dad making instruments. If it’s my turn, I cook the tea. Then I sit in-front of the fire watching crap telly drinking the wine we made in the summer. And I have this wonderful, happy dog.
I live my life like I live in the past, to some extent. And even though I’ve failed, in so many ways, I love it.
Things are not as I’d expected them to be at all, but I wouldn’t change them.