They sang every morning,
'How lucky we are,
Living in a windmill in Amsterdam, ya!'
Like the mice in the famous song, I have been feeling increasingly lucky for where I am in life. These past few weeks -- rather strangely, really -- I've been having frequent flashbacks to my days in the classroom. I'll be sitting down reading a magazine or watching TV when I see an image that triggers a memory, perhaps of arriving in the staffroom at 8am, depressed and dreading the day ahead; being humiliated by the behaviour of a student in front of thirty intimidating teenagers; getting home in the evening to face hours of sitting at a computer wringing my hands over the next day's schedule. They are painful memories; painful in the same way it makes you cringe remembering a social faux pas that still embarrasses you to this day.
I have to pinch myself to be reminded: Dave, you don't have to do all that crap now; you're a free man, Dave; you're a freelance writer. Being a writer is one of those careers I always thought only the privileged few got to do, and now apparently I'm one of those few. Don't misunderstand me:-- I'm earning peanuts at the moment, but I'm getting there. I'm doing stuff I love day in, day out. I've got my finger in a hundred and one delicious pies, all of my own choosing.
And I sang every morning, how lucky I am...