**A Diary Entry: Stop Whining, Start Doing**
I heard Mrs. Jenkins’ voice booming through the hallway before she even knocked. “Rosemary, love, how long are you going to carry on like this? I can hear you through the wall—what’s the matter this time?”
I wiped my sleeve across my eyes and reluctantly opened the door. There she stood, basket of scones in hand, eyebrows raised in that no-nonsense way of hers.
“Just work again, Mrs. J,” I mumbled. “The boss said they’re making redundancies, and since I’ve only been there two years…”
She marched past me into the flat before I could finish. “Enough of that, girl!” she said, setting the basket on the counter. “How old are you? Forty-two? Carrying on like a schoolgirl! Sit down and have a cuppa—we’ll talk this through properly.”
I shuffled to the kitchen. Mrs. Jenkins, at seventy-five, had more energy than most half her age. Straight-backed, sharp-eyed—she never had time for self-pity.
“Right, out with it,” she ordered, flicking the kettle on. “And none of the waterworks—just the facts.”
“The director said my position’s at risk. They’re cutting costs, and with my short tenure…”
“And what are you doing about it?” She pulled out her best china—reserved for serious talks.
“What can I do? Wait for the axe, I suppose. Updated my CV, but who’ll hire someone my age? Plenty of younger ones about, and I’ve not got decades of experience…”
“Hold on!” She spun round. “That’s your problem right there. You’ve already given up before trying. You think the boss enjoys sacking people?”
“But—”
“You’ve got options!” she cut in. “How long have I known you? Clever, meticulous, reliable—you nursed your mum till the end without a peep. And now you’re panicking over a job?”
I opened my mouth, but she was already pouring the tea.
“Listen here,” she said, sitting opposite me. “My late husband, God rest him, worked at the factory thirty years. When it shut down, he was fifty-eight—convinced he was finished. I told him, ‘Stop whining and do something!’ So what did he do? Started as a handyman, then opened his own repair shop. Worked till retirement.”
“But that’s different—men have it easier.”
“Rubbish!” Her teacup clattered onto the saucer. “You’ve got hands, haven’t you? A brain? Why are you acting like a limp lettuce?”
I stirred my tea, silent. She wasn’t wrong. But how to explain the fear that gripped me every time I had to make a decision alone?
“Mrs. J… were you ever scared?” I asked quietly.
“Terrified!” She laughed. “Who isn’t? Saw my husband off to war, nearly lost my mind worrying. But fear’s normal—it’s letting it rule you that’s the problem.”
“I just… I don’t know how to start over.”
“Start small!” She waved a hand. “Put up ads: ‘Accountant assisting with taxes, forms, filings—reasonable rates.’ Word will spread.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“And if it does?” she shot back. “You’re always bracing for the worst! That’s no way to live.”
I bit my lip. She was right. After Mum died, I’d shut down. But Mum wouldn’t have wanted this.
Here’s what we decided: I’d ask the director for remote work—cut his costs, keep my job. If he refused, we’d print flyers. No more waiting for disaster.
Next day, knees trembling, I knocked on Mr. Thompson’s door.
“Rosemary? Everything all right?”
“Sir, about the redundancies… What if I worked from home? Same output, lower salary—you save on desk space, utilities…”
He steepled his fingers. “Interesting. How would logistics work?”
I laid out the plan Mrs. J and I had rehearsed: digital systems, flexible hours, even taking on extra clients.
“Let’s trial it,” he said finally. “A month. If it works, we’ll formalise it.”
Walking out, I felt lighter than I had in years.
That evening, I burst into Mrs. Jenkins’ flat. “He agreed! And—he might refer me to other businesses!”
“Course he did!” She beamed. “Now, no slacking. This is just the beginning.”
A month later, I was managing books for three firms, helping neighbours with tax returns, and eyeing a proper business registration. The fear hadn’t vanished—but now it sharpened me, didn’t paralyse me.
Mrs. Jenkins’ mantra echoed in my head: *Stop whining. Start doing.* And for the first time in ages, I was.
