Call in sick.

on turning my crepe house fantasy into a reality?

Photo by William Krause on Unsplash

On Monday I decided not to go into work after conferring with my mum on a Sunday evening phone call. Yes, I may be a thirty year old woman, but I still need my mum’s opinion on matters such as ‘pulling a sickie’. Luckily, she was all for it.

I’d had a horrific week at work last week - that ended in me almost bursting into tears in front of a huge queue of patients that were all huffing and puffing and highly disgruntled at the wait.

I’m working on reception at a doctors surgery at the moment. It’s a temporary situation that I eventually gave into after two months of desperately searching online for SOMETHING, ANYTHING that would help pay my rent after being let go in March from a company I’d been in for nearly four years. By the way, that company was a tech company - absolutely nothing to do with medical care.

GP receptionists seem to be infamous in the UK for being awful miserable bitches. Everyone hates them. I get it, they are seen as the gatekeepers between you and your doctor (which they inevitably tell you, you can’t see). On top of the feeling of general hatred towards them; the job is supposedly the MOST stressful job you can get in the UK right now. I’m not kidding. My friend is writing her dissertation on front-line workers and apparently GP receptionists have the worst job of all.

Trust me, after the week I had last week - I absolutely can believe it.

So.. WHY ON EARTH am I doing this job after I’ve had the most difficult year of my life? As if I’m not feeling fragile enough I’ve actively chosen to be screamed at by the **ANGRY & SICK** general public. And for minimum wage, mind you.

Well, thats something I’m trying to actively unpack at therapy. Trust me.

For now, I guess the reason I ended up there was down to these three things:

1. I was desperate: I couldn’t find a job and I was rapidly running out of money to pay rent.

2. I used to work there in my early twenties and the manager loved me back then so I reached out and asked if they would have any work for me over the summer.

3. (Un?)luckily they did.

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When I decided I was going back - everyone was surprised. “Surely not? You hated it there!” was a general response from friends and family.

I guess I just wanted something stable. Something familiar. I rationalised it by saying it would only be over the summer as I’ve made plans to go travelling in early October so I felt like I could manage it with an end in sight.

However, I’m starting to think I can’t. I don’t think I have the strength this time around. Last Friday, I went to a friends BBQ after work; I stepped through the back door and immediately burst into tears at the sight of my bestie.

I was emotionally spent. After being swiftly summoned to a quiet spot on the sofa inside and a thirty minute cry I decided I couldn’t face anyone in the garden and made a french exit through the front door of the house. It was such a shame - earlier in the week my therapist had instructed me that I needed to “Have more fun!” and I had been looking forward to that BBQ with friends all week.

Walking home alone, crying, I called my mum again for reassurance. I just felt beaten down by the week I’d had.

So this Monday, I called in sick. Instead of going to work, I decided to try and find myself a new job. Lets be honest, I’m on minimum wage - I surely could find myself a little cafe job over the summer thats less stressful? I figured it was time to just go in person and charm them.

Now I must tell you about this little crepe shack I walk past on my way to work every morning. Its on the waters edge and catches the morning sun, there is always a little bald headed old man at the counter making a coffee or chopping some banana. Each morning on my dreaded walk to work I have day by day built up this fantasy about working there. It is essentially a tiny cabin that sells two things: coffee & crepes. I’ve never seen more than two customers there at a time and it has a poster in the window saying “We are Hiring”.

On Monday I went in and asked if they needed any help, I met the owner and his wife and he offered me a trial shift on Sunday. He promised I could have a free crepe too. He warned me the job could be boring.

Boring? I can do boring. I imagined myself reading my book peacefully in the quiet moments. And imagined the busy lunch rush: a line of two customers waiting for their crepe of choice.

Fuck me, that sounds lovely.

So, maybe my little fantasy is about to be a reality?

And maybe something even bigger is about to happen here: this might just be my first test at leaving something that doesn’t serve me. (If you read my last newsletter you will know its taken me thirty years to come to the realisation that I stick around too long in jobs/relationships/places).

Maybe its time for me to walk away from the doctors surgery (sooner rather than later) and into the crepe house?

On my way home, I saw this on the wall:

I laughed out loud. This time, I’m listening universe.

Stay tuned.

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