“Stop Whining and Do Something”
“Charlotte, for heaven’s sake!” came a loud voice from the hallway. “Crying again? I can hear you through the wall! What’s the matter this time?”
Charlotte wiped her tears with her robe sleeve and reluctantly opened the door. There stood Margaret Thompson, holding a bag of scones.
“All the same, Auntie Margaret… work again…” Charlotte began, but the older woman marched right in.
“Enough whinging, girl!” Margaret declared, setting the scones on the table. “How old are you? Forty-two? Acting like a schoolgirl! Sit down, we’ll have tea and talk properly.”
Charlotte obeyed, shuffling into the kitchen. Margaret, at seventy-five, was sharper than most women half her age—spine straight, eyes keen, with no patience for self-pity.
“Out with it, then,” she ordered, switching the kettle on. “No snivelling, just facts.”
“It’s Mr. Hawthorne,” Charlotte sighed, slumping onto a stool. “He said they’re cutting costs, and I’m likely to be made redundant. I’ve only been in accounts two years. Least seniority, first to go.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Margaret rummaged for cups.
“What can I do? Wait for the axe. Updated my CV, but no one hires at my age. Plenty of younger ones with more experience…”
“Stop right there!” Margaret spun around. “That’s your trouble—you quit before trying! Think the boss enjoys sacking people?”
“But—”
“You could do plenty! I’ve known you how long? Clever, meticulous, responsible—you nursed your mum to the end without complaint. Now you’re falling apart over a job?”
Charlotte opened her mouth, but Margaret was already pouring tea.
“Listen,” she said, sitting opposite. “My late husband, God rest him, worked at the factory thirty years. When it closed, he was fifty-eight. Thought he was finished. I told him, ‘Stop whining and act!’ Know what he did? Started repairing appliances from our shed. Ended up with his own shop.”
“But men have it easier—”
“Nonsense!” Margaret’s eyes flashed. “Got hands? A working brain? Then quit being a jellyfish!”
Charlotte stirred her tea silently. Margaret wasn’t wrong. But how to explain the dread that froze her whenever she had to decide anything?
“Auntie Margaret… weren’t you ever scared?”
“Terrified!” The old woman laughed. “Saying goodbye to my Tom when he shipped out? Nearly lost my mind. Births, illnesses—fear’s normal. Just don’t let it steer.”
“I don’t know…” Charlotte shook her head. “All I’ve done is push paperwork.”
“Rubbish! Fixed my laptop, helped Mrs. Lowell with her tax returns, explained contracts when I sold my cottage—sound familiar?”
Charlotte hesitated. People did ask her advice often…
“But that’s not a proper job—”
“Why not? Folks need help, you’ve the skills—start your own business!”
“Me? I’m no entrepreneur!”
“And who is? My niece Emily went from receptionist to running a beauty salon. Began cutting hair in her flat!”
“This is different…”
“It’s identical! See a need, fill it. People drown in paperwork—you could be their lifeline.”
Charlotte fell quiet, considering. How many friends had moaned about red tape?
“But how would I start? Licenses, permits—”
“Small steps! Post notices: ‘Documents sorted—affordable rates from home.’ They’ll come.”
“What if they don’t?”
“What if they do? You always assume the worst!”
Margaret softened. “I get it—after your mum passed, you shut down. But she’d hate seeing you like this.”
At the mention of her mother, Charlotte’s throat tightened. Margaret was right—without her mum’s steadying voice, she’d felt adrift…
“Tell you what,” Margaret said briskly. “Tomorrow, offer your boss a deal.”
“What deal?”
“Say: ‘Let me work remotely—lower wage, but you save on office space. Win-win.'”
“But he wants cuts—”
“Exactly! You cost less, work stays solid. Win-win!”
Charlotte chewed her lip. It was bold… but worth a try?
“What if he says no?”
“Then no. But you’ll have tried. Sitting scared solves nothing!”
Standing by the window, Margaret said, “I’ve seen two types: moaners who blame luck, and doers who act. Guess who thrives?”
“Must be born that way…”
“Rubbish! Character’s built by doing. Act—you’ll grow. Whine—you’ll stay weak.”
The barb stung. Weak—was that her?
“How’d you get so tough, Auntie Margaret?”
“Had no choice,” she snorted. “War, rationing, Dad dying in France at eighteen—Mum bedridden, two sisters to feed. Crying wasn’t an option.”
Charlotte pictured young Margaret—braving air raids, tending victory gardens—while she quaked at forty-two over a conversation.
“Will you… help me?” she blurted.
“’Course! But not with coddling. We’ll rehearse your pitch like actors.”
That night, Charlotte lay awake, Margaret’s mantra echoing: “Stop whining and do.” What was the worst that could happen? A ‘no’ hurt no more than waiting for the chop.
At lunch the next day, she knocked on Mr. Hawthorne’s door.
“Ah, Charlotte. Everything alright?”
“Sir, about the redundancies… I’ve a proposal.” Her voice shook but held. “Let me work from home—lower salary, but you save on overheads. Same output, less cost.”
He steepled his fingers. “Interesting. How would logistics work?”
She outlined the plan she and Margaret had crafted: digital workflows, virtual consultations, flexible hours for peak productivity.
“Let’s trial it,” he said finally. “One month. If it works, we’ll formalise it.”
Charlotte nearly gasped. It worked!
“Thank you, sir! You won’t regret it.”
“Oh, and my golf partner needs a part-time remote accountant. If ours goes well, I’ll refer you.”
Walking out, she felt lighter than in years. She’d done it—offered a solution, not just begged!
That evening, she burst into Margaret’s flat. “Auntie Margaret, he agreed!”
“Knew you could! Details, now!”
As Charlotte gushed about referrals and plans, Margaret beamed.
“You see? Self-pity got you nowhere. One bold move, and—”
“I know! And I’m thinking—advertise locally, maybe take a QuickBooks course…”
“Now that’s the spirit!” Margaret squeezed her hand. “Remember: ‘Stop whining and do.'”
Charlotte smiled. For the first time in ages, she felt alive. Fear remained, but now it fuelled action. She’d learned: change starts when you do.
By month’s end, Charlotte managed books for three firms, filed neighbours’ taxes, and was eyeing a business license. No longer the woman who feared change, she’d grasped the truth: destiny lies in your own hands—if you stop whining and act.
