And so it came to pass that the
‘going to work on Thursdays’ era
came to an end.
The last day dawned perfectly –
cold, grey, sombre.
The familiar route was travelled,
the familiar stairs climbed,
the familiar work completed.
Her final contractual obligation,
fulfilled.
The distinctive tones of her boss
could be heard somewhere in the building.
She did not seek out the body of the voice,
the instigator of this day.
Instead,
arms full of flowers and Prosecco,
from those who mattered,
she stepped out into the
chilly, subdued
November morning,
and clanged the door shut behind her
for the final time
ever.

As an antidote to any wailing, swearing or
righteous indignation
which could occur,
post-traumatic-working-out-one’s-notice,
measures had been put in place.
Ingredients had been purchased and
wrinkly fruit soaked in brandy overnight.
Her mother had warned her that
Delia’s rich fruit cake recipe
was a bit of a faff,
and, of course,
she was right.
It was complicated and fiddly,
the perfect distraction from the morning’s heavy heartedness.
The recipe required much checking and re-reading,
and the tying of slidey paper around the cake tin with string was
very nearly impossible with only one pair of hands!
However,
the rich, Christmassy smells were
spiritliftingly
divine.
Stirring the bucketful of fruit cake mix
did warrant a sit down part way through,
but was an excellent impromptu arm workout.
Wishing there was such a thing as a
kitchen crane,
the filled cake tin,
swathed in its brown paper, was lifted,
with wobbly arms,
into the oven.
Delia was most emphatic about not
opening the oven door for at least
four hours, which was just as well, as
therapeutic baking did take an
awful lot of cleaning up.