The last working day is done…

well, until two weeks from now.

Why is it that the last day is the worst of them all? Friday felt like I was in a boxing ring being punched from corner to corner. One blow after another without a break. Every time I tried to run for cover or put up my hands to block, another one hits me straight in the face.

I was the last to leave the office and was fighting the tears as I left, not through some sense of loss at being my last day for a while, but because the day had drained my energy. I was low. On the way home, I got a phonecall which just added to that sense of doom.

I plodded my way around Sainsburys in a bit of a daze – managed to come home with cat food, milk and a few other random things – but I wasn’t really there. At home, I tried to do the organised thing and push all work thoughts from my head, but didn’t succeed very well. I’m pleased to say I didn’t pour myself into a bottle, nor did I take it out on the housework (which is what I should have done) but I sat there, trying not to let my brain explode with “what ifs, if buts, and should’ve, could’ve, would’ves.”

Today is another day.  It’s been a bit easier. I’m still very sad. But, I need to wash, iron, pack, tidy and get organised for the holiday. I’m also going to go for a run later to destress.

Tomorrow, I’m going to meet friends for coffee, play golf and then take the cats to their foster home for 10 days. Fingers crossed no disasters, no more stress and no work.

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