“Stop Whinging—Just Do It”
A loud voice echoed down the hallway. “Emily, for goodness’ sake!” the neighbour called out. “Are you crying again? I can hear you through the wall! What’s the problem this time?”
Emily wiped her tears with the sleeve of her dressing gown and reluctantly opened the door. There stood Margaret Whitmore, holding a bag of scones.
“Oh, it’s the same old thing, Auntie Maggie… Work’s a nightmare again…” Emily began, but Margaret marched straight past her into the flat.
“Enough of the whinging, girl!” Margaret said firmly, plonking the bag on the table. “How old are you? Forty-two? Carrying on like a schoolgirl! Sit down—we’ll have tea and talk properly.”
Emily shuffled into the kitchen. Despite being seventy-five, Margaret was sharper than most half her age. Straight-backed, with piercing eyes, she had no patience for self-pity.
“Right, out with it. And no blubbing—just the facts,” she ordered, flicking the kettle on.
“You see, Auntie Maggie,” Emily said, slumping onto a stool, “my boss warned I might be laid off. The company’s cutting costs, and since I’ve only been an accountant for two years, I’m first on the chopping block.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Margaret asked, pulling out teacups.
“What can I do? Wait to be sacked. I’ve updated my CV, but who’ll hire someone my age? Plenty of younger ones about. And I don’t have much experience…”
“Stop right there!” Margaret spun round. “That’s your problem! You’re giving up before you’ve even tried. Think your boss enjoys sacking people?”
“But what can I—”
“You can do plenty!” Margaret cut in. “How long have I known you? Bright, meticulous, responsible—you nursed your mum to the end without a word of complaint. Now you’re falling apart over a job?”
Emily opened her mouth, but Margaret was already pouring the tea.
“Listen,” she said, sitting opposite. “My late husband worked at the factory till it shut down. Fifty-eight, he was—thought it was the end. I told him: Stop whinging, do something! So what did he do? Started as a handyman, then opened his own shop. Fixed appliances till retirement.”
“But he was a man,” Emily sighed. “I’m just—”
“Just what?” Margaret snapped. “Got hands, haven’t you? A brain? Stop being such a wet blanket!”
Emily stirred her tea silently. Margaret was right, of course. But how to explain the fear, the doubt that swallowed her whole every time she had to act?
“Auntie Maggie… were you ever scared?” she asked quietly.
“Terrified!” Margaret laughed. “Who isn’t? Sending my husband off to war nearly broke me. Childbirth? Pure terror. But fear’s normal. Don’t let it rule you.”
“I don’t know…” Emily shook her head. “Feels like all I’m good for is shuffling paperwork.”
“Rubbish!” Margaret waved a hand. “Remember when you fixed my computer? Helped Mrs. Dawson with her taxes? Explained contracts when I sold the cottage?”
Emily paused. She had helped neighbours often—forms, bills, calculations. They’d always thanked her…
“But that’s not a proper job,” she muttered.
“Says who?” Margaret scoffed. “People need help, you can give it. Start your own business!”
“My own—?” Emily blanched. “I’m no entrepreneur!”
“And who is? Think they were born with spreadsheets? My niece Lucy was a secretary—now runs a salon. Started trimming hair in her kitchen!”
“This isn’t the same—”
“It’s exactly the same! Spot a need, fill it. Folks struggle with paperwork—you could help.”
Emily chewed her lip. How often had she heard friends moan about bureaucracy, clueless with forms?
“But how do I start? Licences, permits—”
“Start small! Stick a note in the building: ‘Documents sorted, affordable rates.’ They’ll come.”
“What if they don’t?”
“What if they do?” Margaret countered. “You always expect the worst! Positivity matters.”
Emily nodded, still hesitant.
“Look, love,” Margaret softened. “I get it—after your mum passed, you shut down. But life goes on. She wouldn’t want this.”
At the mention of her mother, Emily’s throat tightened. Margaret was right—without her mum’s steady support, she’d lost all confidence.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Margaret declared. “Tomorrow, offer your boss a deal.”
“What deal?”
“Say: Let me work remotely. I’ll handle the books for less—saves you office costs. Win-win.”
“But he wants cuts—”
“Exactly! Cheaper for him, same quality. Better, even—no distractions at home.”
Emily considered it. Risky… but worth a shot?
“What if he says no?”
“Then he says no. At least you tried. Sitting there waiting for the axe isn’t a plan!”
Margaret stood, gazing out the window.
“I’ve seen two types of people: whingers who blame the world and doers who change it. Guess who succeeds?”
“Must be nice to have that grit,” Emily sighed.
“Grit’s earned! Start acting—you’ll grow a spine. Keep moping—stay a doormat.”
The words stung. A doormat… Was that her?
“Auntie Maggie… how’d you get so tough?”
“No choice,” Margaret smirked. “War, rationing, Dad gone at eighteen. Mum bedridden, two sisters to feed. Crying wasn’t an option.”
Emily imagined young Margaret—just a girl, holding a family together. Then looked at herself: forty-two, too scared to talk to her boss.
“Will you… help me?” she whispered.
“Course! But no hand-holding. Tomorrow, you face that boss. We’ll practice tonight—like actors.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Then we plaster ads and hunt clients. One way or another, you’ll manage. Just move!”
That night, Emily lay awake, Margaret’s voice in her head: Stop whinging—just do it. Why not try? Worst case? A ‘no’—same as doing nothing.
By morning, the fear remained—but so did a spark of curiosity. What if it worked?
At lunch, she knocked on the boss’s door. Mr. Thompson glanced up from his desk.
“Emily? Everything alright?”
“Sir, about the layoffs… I’ve an idea.” Her voice wavered but held. “Let me work remotely. Lower salary, but you’d save on office space. I’ll deliver the same results.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
She laid out the plan: digital systems, phone consults, flexible hours.
“Tell you what,” he said finally. “One-month trial. If it works, we’ll formalise it.”
Emily nearly gasped. It worked!
“Thank you! I won’t let you down.”
“Oh, and my golf buddy needs a part-time bookkeeper. If you’re up for it…”
Walking out, she felt lighter than air. She’d done it—not begged, but offered a solution!
That evening, she raced to Margaret’s.
“Auntie Maggie, he agreed!”
“Told you! Now—details.”
As Emily gushed about extra clients and plans, Margaret beamed.
“I realised something,” Emily said. “Moping changed nothing. But taking a chance—”
“That’s the spirit!” Margaret nodded. “Don’t stop now. This is just the start.”
“I won’t. I’ll put up ads, take a course—maybe even register properly.”
Margaret grinned. “Remember my motto?”
Emily smiled back. For the first time in years, she felt alive. The fear hadn’t vanished—but now it fuelled her. The lesson was simple: change begins not with circumstances, but with you.
A month later, Emily managed books for three firms, filed neighbours’ taxes, and eyed her own business. No longer the weeping woman dreading change, she’d learned: fate lies in your hands. Stop whinging—just do it.
