Whilst we’ve been having lunch (without the kids – they’re both out), Lizzie has been listening in to an online seminar – about nutrition for cancer sufferers.
We eat our butternut squash (again) soup in silence and eventually the seminar ends. Lizzie shuts the lid on her laptop with a grave face.
‘Everything’s so contradictory,’ she says. ‘One minute someone’s saying… don’t drink milk, cancer likes milk.’
I nod (all I can really contribute to this conversation, at this point).
‘The next they’re saying,’ Lizzie continues, ‘that milk is good because it has vitamin D in it. And cancer hates vitamin D.’ She frowns again. ‘So which is it?’
I shrug (my area of expertise – even if I had one – certainly isn’t this).
We start to put the bowls and plates in the dishwasher. ‘It’s made me realise,’ says Lizzie, ‘that, at the end of the day, I’m on my own. I just have to make up my own mind about everything. Nobody really wants to give me any advice on what to do…’
‘In case they kill you,’ I interject.
Lizzie nods.
After lunch, we take the dog for a walk. Lizzie’s finally recovered enough from Covid, to start doing this again.
I’m moaning about my current job, working as a freelancer in film production for a small company in Soho. A more stressful, yet somehow simultaneously boring employment it would be hard to find.
The job makes me think of the old anecdote of the man who walks past another man shovelling animal shit after a circus performance. The shit-shoveller has a big smile on his face, as he continues moving all the crap around him with his spade. ‘Why are you so happy?’ asks the passer-by, confused. ‘Because I’m working in show business!’ beams the shit-shoveller.
It feels like I’m doing my particular job too because of the lure of ‘working in show business!’, although in reality it’s also just shit-shovelling (metaphorically, at least); there’s nothing creative or interesting or showbizzy about the role in the slightest (it’s all about budgets and spreadsheets and soul-sucking, crushing deadlines. And don’t get me started on the long hours…). And I don’t even have a smile on my face as I’m doing it, unlike the circus shit-shoveller.
OK… I know I’m being a big moaner. And I should be glad to have any job at all, in these tough times (particularly a relatively glamorous-sounding one!). I mean, as Lizzie often reminds me, when I was out of work – for a chunk of lockdown – I felt pretty desperate about it (so yup, that was definitely worse than actually having a job. Even a crappy one. That’s what I need to remind myself, anyway…). Also, many of the people at the company I’m working for are very nice… and some are super-talented and do incredible work too. Plus there’s the fact too that things have been so tough at home, recently, starting any new job was bound to be gruelling… so maybe I shouldn’t be too damning about this one (OK… it sounds like I’m making excuses now, doesn’t it?).
Lizzie and I continue to walk on, and I continue to moan about my job (completely forgetting to be grateful about it – despite everything I’ve just said above). The cancer-sufferer beside me listens patiently, the whole time.
Then Lizzie stops.
‘You know, I really am alone in all of this.’
I stop too. ‘I’m here…’ I begin to say.
Lizzie shakes her head. ‘No, I’m alone. We ALL are. Ultimately, we have to rely on ourselves.’
‘But I’m happy right now,’ Lizzie continues, ‘because you’re working. In a boring job, yes. But it means I know if I do die…’
I start to intervene with my stock you’re not going to die response.
‘If I do die,’ Lizzie continues, ignoring me, ‘you’ll be able to look after the kids.’
I nod slowly. If that doesn’t put my shit-shovellingly-boring job into perspective, I think to myself, nothing will.
And with that, Lizzie walks on with the dog. And I walk beside her.
P. D. Clifton 
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