A Postcard for Lisa
It was late in the evening and many of our friends were a little worse for wear. Two of them had crept up to their hotel rooms and returned to the party wearing pyjamas, ordering espresso martinis at the bar. I was driving, so all of the revelry was passing me by after that single pint I’d had several hours earlier before the pasties arrived. It was almost time to go, when Lisa, who we'd both known for well over twenty years, collared us. “I want you both to f*** off,” she slurred gently, “and I mean f*** off in the nicest possible way, go on lots of adventures, and remind the rest of us that there’s life out there once you leave.” Many of us had worked together for a very long time and had become members of this huge institutionalised family of sorts. Whether she might have been rather less forthright with the Anglo-Saxon in a lesser state of inebriation, I’ll never know, but we assured her we’d do that.
We were attending a retirement knees up in honour of one of the vice principals, a lady loved by us all, who’d finally found the escape tunnel after forty-one years at the education grindstone, well over twenty of those in our further education college. Quite frankly, anyone who can survive for that long in the sector deserves a telegram from the king, a carriage clock the size of Big Ben and a self filling reservoir of gin when they hang up the gown and take their pension. It was her night and we were all on her side. But she wasn’t the only recent retiree. Your narrator, freshly returned from eight days in the Brecon Beacons, had also only just handed back his abacus after a far more modest twenty-one years at the chalkboardface. Ali was still teaching on Saturdays, but had finished her full time job at the college almost three years earlier. And if you’re wondering why it was the Brecon Beacons and not the Bahamas, well, we were still drifting in and out of lockdowns and overseas travel was only for those who weren’t overwhelmed by the mountains of paperwork, the vaccination passports and the compulsory wearing of masks on the beaches in Benidorm and Benalmadena. Besides which, we rather like the Brecon Beacons.
It’s a great tradition at this time of year for those of us whose lives are no longer governed by the academic calendar to cram as many holidays as we possibly can into the diary as soon as the kids go back to school. Jokes abound on the social media chat about escapees gadding off in the direction of southern blue skies while the inmates turn grey with anxiety on the first day of September. It’s no coincidence that in my first full September of freedom, I spent two weeks taking photographs in Iceland. We love purposefully avoiding term time holidays now. Far quieter, much much cheaper and extremely high scoring on the giant smugness indicator that's been erected on the roundabout at the entrance to the college. And because neither of us have forgotten Lisa’s instructions, we always post a few phone snaps on Faceplant, just to check that she’s paying attention. And when she does spot a photo of us gurning into our phones at the top of a volcano in Fuerteventura, or slumped on a beach such as this one in Zakynthos, she always reacts with a big red love heart rather than a further instruction to go forth and multiply. Sometimes it almost feels as if we're going on holiday for her rather than ourselves.
And today, it’s exactly three years since my last ever day at work. Not once have I ever thought to myself “I wish I’d stayed on for another couple of years,” or “perhaps I should get a part time job.” Never. Not ever. Not even maybe. In a few days we’re off on another trip, to lounge about on beaches, potter around markets sampling cheese and olives, linger over long lunches and swim where the sea is still warm. Another island we’ve never been to before, and another place where just maybe I’ll find something to photograph (it won't surprise you to learn I’ve been doing my research). But it really won’t matter whether I take a shot or not, because the main thing is that we escaped to enjoy these golden years without worrying about the endless deadlines and dramas of yesteryear on a daily basis. None of us are here forever, and work gets in the way of an awful lot of life. We owe it to Lisa, and all of our other friends who are still toiling and trying to get a tiny bit closer to that exit door. And I just know she's got a big red heart waiting for when we post that snap of us dozing in deckchairs while so many of our old friends are tearing out what's left of their hair amid the autumn term insanity.
A Postcard for Lisa
It was late in the evening and many of our friends were a little worse for wear. Two of them had crept up to their hotel rooms and returned to the party wearing pyjamas, ordering espresso martinis at the bar. I was driving, so all of the revelry was passing me by after that single pint I’d had several hours earlier before the pasties arrived. It was almost time to go, when Lisa, who we'd both known for well over twenty years, collared us. “I want you both to f*** off,” she slurred gently, “and I mean f*** off in the nicest possible way, go on lots of adventures, and remind the rest of us that there’s life out there once you leave.” Many of us had worked together for a very long time and had become members of this huge institutionalised family of sorts. Whether she might have been rather less forthright with the Anglo-Saxon in a lesser state of inebriation, I’ll never know, but we assured her we’d do that.
We were attending a retirement knees up in honour of one of the vice principals, a lady loved by us all, who’d finally found the escape tunnel after forty-one years at the education grindstone, well over twenty of those in our further education college. Quite frankly, anyone who can survive for that long in the sector deserves a telegram from the king, a carriage clock the size of Big Ben and a self filling reservoir of gin when they hang up the gown and take their pension. It was her night and we were all on her side. But she wasn’t the only recent retiree. Your narrator, freshly returned from eight days in the Brecon Beacons, had also only just handed back his abacus after a far more modest twenty-one years at the chalkboardface. Ali was still teaching on Saturdays, but had finished her full time job at the college almost three years earlier. And if you’re wondering why it was the Brecon Beacons and not the Bahamas, well, we were still drifting in and out of lockdowns and overseas travel was only for those who weren’t overwhelmed by the mountains of paperwork, the vaccination passports and the compulsory wearing of masks on the beaches in Benidorm and Benalmadena. Besides which, we rather like the Brecon Beacons.
It’s a great tradition at this time of year for those of us whose lives are no longer governed by the academic calendar to cram as many holidays as we possibly can into the diary as soon as the kids go back to school. Jokes abound on the social media chat about escapees gadding off in the direction of southern blue skies while the inmates turn grey with anxiety on the first day of September. It’s no coincidence that in my first full September of freedom, I spent two weeks taking photographs in Iceland. We love purposefully avoiding term time holidays now. Far quieter, much much cheaper and extremely high scoring on the giant smugness indicator that's been erected on the roundabout at the entrance to the college. And because neither of us have forgotten Lisa’s instructions, we always post a few phone snaps on Faceplant, just to check that she’s paying attention. And when she does spot a photo of us gurning into our phones at the top of a volcano in Fuerteventura, or slumped on a beach such as this one in Zakynthos, she always reacts with a big red love heart rather than a further instruction to go forth and multiply. Sometimes it almost feels as if we're going on holiday for her rather than ourselves.
And today, it’s exactly three years since my last ever day at work. Not once have I ever thought to myself “I wish I’d stayed on for another couple of years,” or “perhaps I should get a part time job.” Never. Not ever. Not even maybe. In a few days we’re off on another trip, to lounge about on beaches, potter around markets sampling cheese and olives, linger over long lunches and swim where the sea is still warm. Another island we’ve never been to before, and another place where just maybe I’ll find something to photograph (it won't surprise you to learn I’ve been doing my research). But it really won’t matter whether I take a shot or not, because the main thing is that we escaped to enjoy these golden years without worrying about the endless deadlines and dramas of yesteryear on a daily basis. None of us are here forever, and work gets in the way of an awful lot of life. We owe it to Lisa, and all of our other friends who are still toiling and trying to get a tiny bit closer to that exit door. And I just know she's got a big red heart waiting for when we post that snap of us dozing in deckchairs while so many of our old friends are tearing out what's left of their hair amid the autumn term insanity.