I’m sitting on the balcony at the moment, watching the last glimmer of yellow on the hillsides opposite my house, flapping my hands pointlessly at the mosquitoes and playing my favourite twilight nature game: “bird or bat?” This morning I filed my last piece of copy until I come home. And although I am sure there will be questions on that bit of copy, the intensity of scrabbling around for phone lines and internet connections and case studies stops here.
Today I wrote an email letting someone down, saying I couldn’t do work I had hoped to be able to do. I still feel a tight ping of panic in my head as I think about it. I wonder if that person will ever employ me again. I wonder if word will get around and I will get a Reputation for Unreliability. But it can’t be avoided. I’ve realised that it’s virtually impossible to freelance from here and make a profit. Reluctantly I have to let it go before it kills me and hope and pray I can get plenty of work when I come home.
So now it’s just me, the scenery and the Manuscript. And an ever dwindling purse of monies, of course. There’s no backing out now.
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