Once upon a time I worked for a major retailer where it was said that 'Every Little Helps'. I learnt a great deal at the feet of very talented and important men and women, one or two of whom remain my heroes - they know who they are. Part of my lifelong learning in the decade of my career that belonged to this powerful organisation was what I absorbed through the wisdom and compassion of my female boss for whom I was a personal assistant. The remainder I learnt in the training departments when she pushed me out of my comfort zone, by way of promotion, to allow me to blossom into middle management. I learnt about things that I didn't know I knew; I learnt about things I didn't know I needed to know and I learnt about things I didn't know.
I was taught to recognise my own strengths and weakness - an uncomfortable process if you happen to be a lapsed Catholic with a phenomenal ability to feel guilt and have a finely tuned sense of unworthiness. At first I discovered that I DID have some talent despite my lack of formal education and, what's more, IT HAD VALUE!!!! Blimey! What a breakthrough that was. And, I was in my early forties! Then I discovered that whatever it was I did know was contained in a tangled ball of wool with many loose ends inside my brain. I had to learn how to retrieve it in order to compete with the graduates and to get my voice heard. That was painful.
Anyroadup, with the assistance of some highly skilled trainers I learnt that within my toolbox of skills was the ability to think strategically. What Ifs...? What Happens...? Where will ...? How ...? Why? What a revelation that was! It meant that I could write training material from every ones perspective, the seller's, the customer's, the operatives . I automatically found it easy to capture the needs of what they call now, the stakeholders. I became quite proud of my skill even though some people resented my ability to suggest where an issue might lie. Methinks that no-one likes a smart arse.
I also learned that strengths can become weaknesses: in the jargon, they can becomes an over-played strength. So my natural weakness as a strategic thinker manifests itself as a chronic worrier when at its worst. Take today's example (yes I have gotten to the point dear reader!):
I am a key holder for the redundant church in my village. I am passionately protective of my church and work with the Churches Conservation Trust on a voluntary basis. Yesterday two lovely chaps travelled from Bridport (! in this weather?) to carry out repairs to bells that have not been heard for decades. I am ridiculously excited at the prospect of hearing them ring for the first time in the ten years I have stood watch over the Church. Having arranged for them to collect the key this morning, I waved them off to their day of work. Not once did I see them emerge from the Church, all day. That was fine, how many times can you climb up and down steep steeple steps anyway? If the steps were a road they would be classed as a one-in-one.
I was beginning to feel a little guilty about not offering them a hot drink: as a cripple I was concerned about the conditions under foot and my resolve was broken by the bitter easterly wind which whipped across my face as I opened my front door. The afternoon came, along with the wind, the snow - horizontal as well as vertical, the hailstones and the icy rain. I kept watch from the comfort of my Hive window anticipating the appearance of one or the other of the workmen. Nope. No sign. No lights appeared in the steeple, nor the main body of the Church as the sun set. There was no activity in or around the van either. Gradually the WorryWorm began nibbling at the skirts of my conscience and I began to be concerned.
'Hey!' hissed WorryWorm, 'Why haven't you been over to check on them?'. 'Er ... ' said I, 'It's rough out there! They are grown men! They know what they are doing!'
WorryWorm left me alone for a little while, even though he was not satisfied with my explanation. The sky got darker and the icy rain started thickening once more into fat, fluffy flakes of snow. The next time I looked away from my screen, it was almost dark and still no sign of any lighting within the Church. 'Hah!' shouted WorryWorm in my ear. 'See! there is STILL no sign of them!'. Assuming responsibility, yet again, for that which is not mine to assume, my imagination went into overdrive. What if: what if one of them has fallen? The other will have a mobile phone I told myself. Brief respite from concern followed for, oh! a whole nano second. Okay... what if one of them has discovered that the other one has been having an affair with his wife and has killed his rival? Now you are just being silly. Even briefer pause before WorryWorm came up with the ultimate worry: What if?: what if they have been using a paraffin stove to keep warm in the steeple? What if? : a stiff breeze has entered through one of the slits in the tower and blown the flame out and niether of them noticed and they have had both been overcome by the fumes?
WorryWorm won of course. Donned on my boots, woolly hat, gloves, two layers of coats: picked up Percy - my walking stick - press ganged a reluctant MaddyMoo to accompany me. As I locked my front door and became blinded by the sleet being thrown in my face I noticed the lights were on in the Church. Gingerly I made my way across the freezing road. One of them was still alive! Hurrah!!!! Stumbled up to the front door of the Church and spotted both of them. Admonished them, much as a neurotic mother does when she has temporarily mislaid her child (yes, I did) and asked them how much longer they would be working in the dark because I was concerned for them. They laughed, good naturedly as you do with a batty old woman who might prove to be dangerous, and assured me they were fine, that they were used to working in much worse conditions and that they would be finished by 18.00 hours. I wished them well and left them to it.
Of course I couldn't settle until they had actually finished - 10 past six since you ask - couldn't draw my blind, break out the first whiskey of the evening, wash my hair or leave my post until I knew they were safely away to their bed and breakfast lodgings.
I console myself with the knowledge that I can, at last, be accepted as a silly old bat whose heart is in the right place. Where once I strived to appeal to people (okay men in particular) as the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent , devastatingly funny woman they had ever met, now I am content to be considered as mad as a box of frogs and to enjoy the indulgent, 'she's harmless' tolerance of the young.
Of course, the younger of the two will never know just how delicious he is considered to be by this crippled old hag: the sort of chap who wouldn't have stood a chance against me before age and the Back Monsters assailed me. Thank God for memories eh?!
Stay safe and take care of each other
Love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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