The Beach Cafe Read Online Free PDF Page B

don’t forget that the stationery order needs putting through today.’
    It was the following Monday morning, and Carrawen Bay seemed a long, long way away now; a shimmering, unreachable oasis in my mind, a dream I had once had. I was back in Oxford, in a dingy office block near the Clarendon Centre, where I was midway through a two-month temping job for the most bad-mannered, ill-humoured group of people in the world, who all seemed to think I had superhero abilities when it came to my Everest-like intray.
    I hadn’t had the most illustrious career, it had to be said. After drama school, I’d wanted to tread the boards (or be flung into Hollywood stardom, let’s be honest), but after five years when I only managed a few minor roles in theatre productions, and a sole appearance in Casualty as an extra (Overdose Victim), I grudgingly accepted that I was always going to be more Hollyoaks than Hollywood, and reluctantly knocked that dream on the head. Then I tried to make it as a photographer, followed by a stint singing in a band, but those career options didn’t pan out too well, either. That was the point at which I met Matthew; and then, with Matthew’s encouragement, I’d quit my pub job, gone to secretarial college and had been temping ever since. And bored out of my wits. Recently I had finally resigned myself to doing what my parents and sisters had been brainwashing me to do all along – go into teaching.
    Personally I wasn’t convinced I would make the most illustrious teacher. I didn’t have a lot of patience at the best of times, became quickly irritated by whingeing children and, worst of all, couldn’t bear the sound of chalk squeaking down a blackboard. My sisters reassured me that it was all whiteboards these days and amazing computer trickery, but I still felt on edge at the thought of being in a classroom again. (And don’t get me started on my lifelong fear of school toilets.) However, I’d grudgingly come to the conclusion that perhaps taking a teacher-training course might actually be a tad more interesting and worthwhile than staying in Temp Hell for the rest of my days. And, frankly, I’d run out of other options. My family had been relieved, to say the least.
    ‘You’re making the right decision,’ Ruth told me, nodding her head with sage approval. ‘Teaching’s not only rewarding, but you’ve got the security of work for life. And then, of course, you’ve got your pension too – never too early to be thinking about that.’
    I completely disagreed. In my opinion, taking a job for pension reasons when you were still in your thirties was so mind-bogglingly old-fartish that it should be punishable by law. Besides, I wasn’t sure I even wanted ‘work for life’, either – the very phrase filled me with dread. Where did following your dreams and taking chances fit into ‘work for life’? What happened to fun and spontaneity?
    The thing was, arguing with Ruth was like arguing with a moving bulldozer; you were always going to be squashed eventually, whether you liked it or not. You could protest all you wanted to about fun and dreams and risk-taking, but get her on the subject of mortgages and family responsibilities and she was unstoppable.
    So, duly flattened, I’d done the safe, sensible thing and applied for a place on a course at Oxford Brookes. Much to my surprise, I’d actually been offered one. I’d almost laughed in disbelief when the letter had arrived. They really thought I was a suitable candidate for being a teacher? Clearly my acting skills had been magnificent during the interview. Suckers!
    Anyway, the course started in four months’ time, in September, and originally, knowing how intensive and full-on-exhausting a PGCE was meant to be, I’d had vague plans to take some time off before it started and enjoy my last months of freedom. I could decorate the house, dig out my camera and do some photography, sort out the garden, or maybe even take a last-hurrah holiday