**Monday, 12th March**
I could hear Mrs. Wilkins’ voice through the wall before she even knocked. “Emily, love, I can hear you sniffling again—what’s the matter this time?”
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and opened the door. There she stood, sturdy as an oak, holding a paper bag of scones.
“It’s the same old story,” I sighed. “Work. The manager’s cutting staff, and I’ve only been there two years…”
Mrs. Wilkins marched in before I could finish. “Enough of that, girl! You’re forty-two, aren’t you? Acting like a schoolgirl won’t help. Sit down—tea first, then we’ll talk properly.”
She had a way of making me listen. Seventy-five years old and sharper than most people half her age, she had no patience for self-pity.
“Now, out with it. Properly, no snivelling,” she said, flicking the kettle on.
I slumped into a chair. “The director says my job’s on the line. They’re trimming costs, and with only two years in accounting, I’m first in the firing line.”
“And what are you doing about it?” She set the teacups down.
“What can I do? Wait it out, I suppose. Sent out a CV, but who hires someone my age with little experience?”
“Stop right there!” She turned sharply. “That’s your problem—you quit before you’ve even tried. Think they’re sacking people for fun?”
“But—”
“You can do plenty! You’re bright, meticulous—I’ve seen you nurse your mum right to the end without complaint. And now you’re panicking over a job?”
I tried to argue, but she wasn’t having it. “Listen here. My late husband, God rest him, worked at the factory till it closed. Fifty-eight, thought he was finished. I told him: *Stop whining, do something!* He apprenticed as a handyman, then opened his own shop. Worked till he retired.”
“But that’s different—he was a man.”
She scoffed. “And what are you? Got hands, haven’t you? A brain? Then stop acting like a wet lettuce!”
I stirred my tea, silent. Fear had a way of freezing me—every decision felt like a cliff edge.
“Mrs. Wilkins… were you ever scared?”
“Terrified! Saw my husband off to war, nearly lost my mind with worry. But fear’s natural—just don’t let it steer the wheel.”
I shook my head. “All I know is shuffling papers.”
“Nonsense! You fixed my computer, helped Mrs. Thompson with her taxes, explained contracts when I sold the cottage. That’s skill!”
“But it’s not a *job*.”
“Why not? People need help—you’ve got the knack. Start your own thing!”
“Me? A business? Don’t be daft.”
She leaned in. “My niece Sarah—started cutting hair in her kitchen. Now runs a salon with three stylists. *Everyone* starts somewhere.”
I chewed my lip. She had a point—half the street moaned about paperwork. But how?
“Put a notice up: *Documents sorted, taxes managed—reasonable rates*. Test the waters.”
“And if no one comes?”
“And if they *do*?” She huffed. “You’re forever scripting failure. Try optimism!”
I nodded, but doubt clung like fog.
“Emily,” she softened. “I know losing your mum hollowed you out. But she wouldn’t want this—you hiding from life.”
My throat tightened. Mum had been my compass. Without her, I’d drifted.
“Right,” Mrs. Wilkins clapped her hands. “Tomorrow, you’ll propose a deal to your director.”
“What deal?”
“Offer to work remotely—handle accounts from home. They save on office costs, you keep your job. Everyone wins.”
“But they’re cutting costs—”
“*Exactly*. You’ll cost less and work better—no distractions.”
I mulled it over. Bold, but… what if?
“What if he says no?”
“Then he says no! At least you’ll have tried. Sitting and waiting solves nothing.” She strode to the window. “In my life, I’ve seen two types: those who moan about bad luck and those who *act*. Guess who thrives?”
“People with grit, I suppose.”
“*Grit’s grown by doing!* Start moving, and you’ll find your spine.”
Her words stung. Spineless—was that me?
“How’d you get so… unshakable?” I asked.
“Had no choice. War, rationing, Dad gone at eighteen—Mum bedridden, two sisters to feed. Crying wasn’t on the rota.”
I pictured her—a girl my niece’s age—keeping a family alive. And here I was, paralysed by a job chat.
“Mrs. Wilkins… will you help me?”
“Course! But we’re doing, not talking. Tomorrow, you face that director. Tonight, we rehearse—like actors.”
That night, I lay awake, her voice echoing: *Stop whining—do something.* What was the worst that could happen? A ‘no’? That was coming anyway.
At noon, I knocked on the director’s door. Mr. Carter glanced up from his desk. “Emily? Everything alright?”
“Sir, about the redundancies… I’d like to propose an alternative.” My voice wavered but held. “Let me work remotely—same output, lower salary. Saves you office costs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How would that function?”
I outlined the plan Mrs. Wilkins and I had crafted: digital systems, phone consultations, flexible hours.
After a pause, he nodded. “Let’s trial it—a month. If it works, we’ll formalise it.”
I nearly gaped. It *worked*.
“Thank you, sir! I won’t let you down.”
“Oh—a friend’s firm needs a freelance accountant. If this goes well, I’ll pass your name along.”
Walking out, I felt lighter than I had in years.
That evening, I burst into Mrs. Wilkins’ kitchen. “He said *yes*!”
Her grin was triumphant. “Told you! Now—details.”
As I babbled about remote setups and potential clients, something clicked.
“You know… I realised something. Nothing changed while I wallowed. But one step forward—”
“—And the path appears,” she finished. “This is just the start. Keep moving.”
I nodded. “I’ll place ads for document help. Maybe take a course in accounting software.”
“Now *that’s* the spirit!” She patted my hand. “Remember: *Stop whining—do something.* That’s your motto now.”
I smiled. For the first time in ages, I felt awake—fear still there, but fuel, not chains. The lesson was simple: change begins not with shifting circumstances, but with shifting *yourself*.
A month later, I was managing books for three firms, assisting neighbours with tax returns, and eyeing a proper business registration. The woman who’d trembled at change was gone. In her place stood someone who’d learned: fate isn’t dealt—it’s seized. Just stop whining. *Do something.*
