Retirement

A dilemma for those with grown-up children. Stevie asks the question many of us think about.

As we get older a question that often surfaces is … ‘should we move closer to our children?‘ (this could be changed to brothers, sisters, nieces or nephews for those who are not parents). It’s a tricky one indeed, and I’ve seen evidence that it doesn’t always turn out the way that was originally planned.

Sam and I are still thinking about whether to retire to the Isle of Wight. Neither of us want to be a burden to our sons or daughters-in-law, who are all at work during the week. The move is rather tempting, especially as we’ve found that some couples who moved closer to their children and grandchildren have now regretted it. Okay, it’s nice to have back-up in case of emergencies, but then again there’s the guilt at calling a relative out in the middle of the night or possibly feeling the relative’s resentment…

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Reading things online, and looking at Twitter, I am suddenly reminded that it is Wednesday.

For everyone still working, at least those still able to work during lockdown, that middle day of the week has some significance. It still seems a long way to go until the weekend promises a break from toil, and the chance to do ‘weekend stuff’.

And it is two more days until that ‘Friday Feeling’ brings the promise of two days not having to get up early unless you want to.

I have to go back a very long time if I want to recall either of those feelings associated with days of the week. Almost forty-one years, to be precise. Because that was the last time I ever worked in a nine-to-five job. Friday evenings were either ‘eat out’ nights, or ‘go to see a film at the cinema’ nights. Something pleasant crammed in to the end of a working day, to get a head start on a weekend of enjoyment.

Saturday nights were ‘friends over for dinner’ nights, or ‘going to friends for dinner’ nights. Sundays were usually reserved for ‘visiting mum’, or ‘roast dinner with family’. By the time it got to four in the afternoon on a Sunday, I was already dreading having to go to work the next day. That feeling usually ruined the rest of what became a dull evening.

If we were really lucky, the whole weekend might be a ‘weekend away’. Friday and Saturday night staying in a hotel somewhere, the enjoyment only dampened by returning home in the usual heavy traffic on a Sunday in London.

Then I started to work in a job that involved shifts.

Weekends became a thing of the past. I was working three out of four of them, so they lost any significance. Then on the one when I wasn’t working, I slept away most of the first day after a night shift. Monday morning stopped being something to dread. I was either out of the house well before six, or sleeping in until getting up for a late shift that started at three in the afternoon.

No boring ‘midweek Wednesday’ feeling any longer. No ‘Friday feeling’ to excite me.

Just shifts.

Now my life could not be more different. The days of the week have no relevance to my life whatsoever. I might go shopping on a Monday, or I might not. I take Ollie out every day, whatever day that is. I don’t miss any ‘Friday feeling’, because every day might just as well be a Friday. Or a Sunday.

Or a Wednesday, for that matter.