Through a lucky set of circumstances I found myself, last October, without a job and with a lump sum in cash that would support me for up to a year, if I was carefuI.  Decision time – leap back into the job market immediately?  Or give myself six months to do everything I had wistfully put aside as dreams that could never be realised – a ‘no regrets’ sabbatical?

Out came the dreams. Too late for some, that was inevitable.  Some were totally unrealistic, and a few  turned out to be less fun in reality than they were in potential.   Seven months down the line,  I’ve picked up four new clients and a blogging contract, published two books, half-written the third, and taken in a dog which is ruling me with a paw of iron.  I now know that I will never be a stand-up comedian and that I don’t after all want to do desktop publishing.  It doesn’t seem much to show for six months where never a day has passed when I haven’t learned at least two new things.

Should I have done it – of course not.  Would I advise anyone to give up their day job – of course not.  Any regrets?  Of course not!

My A-Z autobiography … Lions – and life in Africa – the photos are from a public domain website.

The only thing I really clearly remember about this day – I was four – was that  I got to hold a tame cheetah cub and have been hopelessly addicted to cheetahs ever since, but the story has been told so often, and by so many different family friends, I re-tell it with confidence.

This was a wonderful, and special, day out at a private game park – special, because the park had been given two young lionesses which would be ceremoniously released into the park after the guests had enjoyed a braai (what the rest of you might call a barbecue).

The lionesses were admired through the fence of their pen, the cheetah cub was detached from me with some difficulty, and the dozen guests were taken for a viewing drive in open land-rovers.  A spectacular buffet, with fires already dying down to hot coals ready for the braai, greeted us on our return.  The spot was well chosen, in clear veld out in the open miles from anywhere so as to have the best possible view for the highlight of the day.

Game viewing is hot and thirsty work so the guests were crowded round the temporary bar but I, bored and a bit hungry, wandered over to investigate the buffet tables. It was at that point that the young lionesses, bored with waiting for their moment in the spotlight, escaped from the back of their pen and padded over to join the party.  The guests promptly attempted to get behind the little bar, climb one of the few spindly thorn trees, sprint in the direction taken by the rangers in the land rovers, or cram themselves into the small catering truck which represented the only other refuge.  My mother looked round anxiously – to see me, on my own, completely unaware of the new arrivals, and raptly contemplating the desserts buffet.  She darted across, swung me up onto the buffet, climbed up herself,  grabbed a tray of raw steak and started flipping prime sirloins towards the advancing lionesses. Apparently they entered into the spirit of things with grateful enthusiasm and she had nearly emptied the tray by the time the hastily-summoned rangers hurried up to herd them away, now completely without ceremony, to their new lives. I had made nearly as many inroads on the chocolate eclairs and was completely unaware of any drama.

My father had to be helped down from a thorn tree, having painfully punctured his hands and thighs, and used to get quite irritated when she told the story, which, it has to be admitted, she did a lot. But then I told the elephant story of being abandoned on my honeymoon quite a lot, too. Just proves, girls do tend to marry their fathers.

You may well ask what impact Kindles, relatively late arrivals in the decades of my life, could have on my alphabetical autobiography, and I’m glad you did.

I was given the massively thick Far Pavilions, by M M Kaye, when I was pregnant and although I enjoyed reading it, the bump (known as Trubshaw) objected strenuously to having the heavy book rested on his (we thought) head, and kicked furiously. No worries, I thought, I’ll take it into hospital. Not knowing, at that stage, that my arms would be like spaghetti and my ability to concentrate almost zero.  As a book that weighs nearly 5 pounds isn’t something you can carry in your handbag and dip into whenever you have a few minutes free, it was a goodish while before I finally finished it and for pure physical comfort I haven’t liked very heavy books since.

I resisted the idea of kindles from the start – the price, not being able to turn the pages, being left without something to read if the battery failed – until I epublished my first book.  I thought I’d be able to read it on my computer. Ha. I ended up buying a 2^nd hand kindle on eBay.

That was only a couple of months ago, but I am now a fervent supporter.  Far Pavilions? Bring it on.  Harry Potter, pah,  I could carry the whole series in my handbag.  I AM carrying the whole Lucia series, and what a treat that is, now, if I suddenly find myself having to wait – for a friend, or at a railway station, or an airport – I have 15 books at least to dive into, from novellas for 2 hours distraction, up to a 10 hour marathon. I do, and always will, prefer printed books, but this is so much better an option than I had ever realised.

I’m now starting to replace some of my older books – the ones read so often they are falling apart – with kindle versions, and I love that I can increase the print size when I’m tired, or when the light isn’t great.  I keep an eye on the freebies, and 99c books as well, and often take a chance on them – in fact without spending more than a couple of quid at any one time, I’ve got a whole smorgasbord to try, and can replenish it while I’m on holiday, anywhere in the world.

So you could say that K for kindles also represents stubbornly-held prejudices which need re-examining, because I have no idea where else I’d be able to shoehorn those  into this alphabetical autobiography and I need to remind myself – often – that because I’ve believed something for a long time does not automatically mean I’m right.

I gave myself a 6 month paid break to follow my dreams, and I’ve captured a few and it has been lovely. I had hoped to build up enough of a portfolio to work from home but although that has gone well, and I do have some happy customers and the promise of referrals and more work, it hasn’t yet achieved living wage status, and can be maintained part time. I now have to go job hunting. Just the thought makes me practically tearful, which should make for some interesting interviews.

“So, why do you want to work here?”

“Actually” sniffs and wells up “I don’t, really”  *breaks down in sobs. Escorted gently but firmly from premises*

Anyone know of any jobs where snivelling and occasionally weeping isn’t a bar to success?

My A-Z autobiography – the Indaba Conference Centre    http://www.indabahotel.co.za/

This was quite definitely the most beautiful place I have ever worked, and possibly the most alarming boss I ever had, a fiery and demanding man who never smiled, or even looked pleased, and had been moved from a previous hotel because the entire staff went on strike insisting he be replaced.  When I joined the Indaba team, as his executive assistant, he had been Managing director for just over a year and the staff turnover had soared to over 300%.  No pressure, then.

Actually we got on fine. I enjoyed the job, relished the challenge, and was genuinely impressed by what he was achieving.  Under his impatient but brilliant direction, the Indaba went from a pretty country hotel to a superb international conference centre.   He was very hands on and never a detail escaped his eagle eye – he could run the kitchen, act as chef, run the accounts department, outsell any of the marketing people and he knew it, and they knew it. The very best you could hope for in the way of approval was for his semi-permanent scowl to lift slightly.

The more successful the hotel got, the more it was targeted by hopeful streetwalkers. They were far too afraid of him to venture inside the gates but there were more of them hanging around outside every day and despite his angry demands that security move them on, they were proving impossible to shift. It was, in his opinion, extremely bad PR for his wonderful hotel and finally he couldn’t bear it any more. In his tailored suit, silk shirt and immaculate tie he led a few nervous and deeply reluctant security guards on a mid-afternoon surprise sortie outside the gates. Security guards were one thing – the notoriously choleric MD shouting at them was quite another, and the crowd melted away in seconds.  I was in Reception (everyone who could find the faintest excuse to be there was in Reception) and saw his slightly ruffled but triumphant return from the gate.   He never smiled, but right then he did, for once, look grimly satisfied!

My A-Z autobiography … H is for House and home

Those annoying telesales calls, we all get them, trying to sell stuff – there’s always that moment when they ask ‘are you the home-owner?’

I lived at home until I was eighteen, moved in with a friend who owned a house until I married, and, well, one way and another, always lived in other people’s property until I moved to Scotland.  The property market was just starting to perk up but it was still going to be cheaper for me to buy than to rent, and I invested, very nervously, in a shabby ninety-year-old flat and spent  two years  fixing it up, one project at a time. After two years I sold it, for more than double what I had paid, and bought a very small house.  My very own house!

There’s a quote I read somewhere that middle age starts with the first mortgage.  Instead, I felt and feel quite extraordinarily grown up.  Me!  A home-owner!

Not that I admit that to telesalespeople, of course.

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