Never on a Saturday

​It was a Saturday, I remember because I always went shopping on Saturdays with my friend, Mia. We would have lunch out and then browse around the shops, or maybe see a film. Those were the days when I was teaching, and Saturday was a brief, luxurious day in my otherwise stressful life. Sundays were for chores, and dread of the looming week ahead.I came across Fight for the Life You Want to Live in the Self-Help section of the book shop. Somehow my fingers were drawn to the bright-red cover as if my brain was sending commands without my knowledge or say-so. Then I was reading the back cover, the Contents, and before I knew it, I was halfway through the first chapter. It was the sort of shop that encouraged reading and browsing so I bought an obligatory coffee and spent the rest of the afternoon lost in the fight for my life. Mia, huffing in annoyance, went home.
Part of me knew I shouldn’t be taken in, and I imagined my no-nonsense sister, Ellie, shaking her head in despair at this ‘self-help garbage.’ But somehow, I was gripped! Here was a way forward. I bought the book and spent the rest of the weekend immersed in The Fight. I dutifully answered questionnaires, made candid notes about what I hated about my life and what I wanted instead. Sorted out my priorities – and planned my escape.
I set off for work on Monday morning full of energy, my letter of resignation – the bomb that would trigger my new life – nestling in my bag. The end was in sight – four more weeks and then I’d be free. I felt light-headed and giddy.
My vision, dutifully described in the exercise for Chapter 3, of sitting in a beachside coffee bar, notebook in hand, writing my first novel, was dizzyingly close to coming true. Re-mortgaging the house to raise enough funds for my adventure was completed the following week. I felt as if I was walking on air – way above – looking down on everyone else’s hum-drum, boring lives.
Before I knew it, I was sitting by the Mediterranean with a notebook, smugly imagining my former colleagues on break duty in the grey, cold, concrete playground. There was only one problem. My notebook lay, pristine, waiting for me to write my inspired thoughts – of which I had zilch.
As the weeks passed, the glistening sea became exhausting, like a friend who is fun and exciting to be around but eventually becomes too much. The money was draining away faster than I imagined and I moved from hotels to hostels – hardly conducive to writing. When I only had my air fare home, I admitted defeat and surrendered.
Now I am on antidepressants and state benefits. I can go to the shopping centre any day I want, but I can’t face seeing anyone from my old life. I don’t go there on a Saturday.
© Sheena Billett