**Diary Entry – 10th May**
“Stop whinging – just get on with it!”
The sharp voice of my neighbour, Mrs. Harrington, carried through the hallway. “For heaven’s sake, Emily, how much longer?” She rapped on the door. “I can hear you crying through the walls. What’s the matter this time?”
I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my dressing gown and reluctantly opened the door. Mrs. Harrington stood there, holding a paper bag of scones.
“It’s just work again,” I mumbled. “The boss said they’re making cuts—”
“Enough of that!” she cut in, stepping past me. “You’re forty-two, girl. Pull yourself together.” She set the bag on the kitchen table. “Sit. We’ll have tea and talk properly.”
I obeyed, slumping onto the stool while Mrs. Harrington filled the kettle. At seventy-five, she was sharper than most people half her age—back straight, eyes piercing, with no patience for self-pity.
“Out with it, then,” she said. “And skip the dramatics.”
“It’s my job,” I sighed. “They’re cutting costs, and I’ve only been there two years. Junior accountants are first to go.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Waiting to get sacked, I suppose. I’ve updated my CV, but at my age, who’d hire me over someone fresh out of uni?”
“Good grief!” Mrs. Harrington spun round. “That’s your problem—you give up before you’ve even tried. You think your boss enjoys laying people off?”
“But what can I—”
“You can fight!” She smacked a china cup onto the table. “I’ve known you years, Emily. You’re clever, thorough—look how you cared for your mum all those years without complaint. And now you’re falling apart over redundancy?”
I opened my mouth, but she ploughed on.
“Listen. My late husband, God rest him, worked at the steelworks till they shut it down. Fifty-eight years old, thought his life was over. I told him: ‘Stop moaning and do something!’ So what did he do? Started tinkering with motors, opened his own garage. Fixed people’s cars till retirement.”
I twisted my teaspoon. “That’s different—he was a tradesman. I’m just… me.”
“You’ve got hands, haven’t you? A brain?” she snapped. “You helped me sort my pension forms. Advised the Wilsons on their tax returns. People rely on you!”
I hesitated. That was true—neighbours often asked for help with paperwork.
“But that’s not a job,” I said weakly.
“It could be!” She jabbed a finger at me. “My niece was a receptionist; now she runs a beauty salon from her shed. You could do the same—help small businesses with their books. Start small—put an ad in the newsagent’s!”
The idea flickered in my mind. But fear snuffed it out. “What if no one hires me?”
“What if they do?” she shot back. “You’re always catastrophising. Change the record!”
Later, unable to sleep, I replayed her words: “Stop whinging—just get on with it.” If I didn’t try, I’d never know.
Next morning, I knocked on my boss’s office door. “Mr. Thompson,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “About the redundancies—what if I worked remotely? Lower salary, but you’d save on desk space. I could handle the same workload from home.”
He leaned back, thoughtful. “Interesting. How would you manage it?”
We talked logistics—cloud accounting, video calls. By the end, he agreed to a trial month.
That evening, I burst into Mrs. Harrington’s flat. “It worked! He said yes!”
She grinned. “Course it did. Now—go chase more clients. Build something.”
A month later, I managed books for three firms, filed neighbours’ tax returns, and toyed with registering as self-employed. The fear hadn’t vanished, but now it spurred me instead of paralysing me.
**Lesson learned:** Moaning changes nothing. Action does. Fate’s in your hands—but only if you reach out and grab it.
