The Burnout(13)

I do enjoy some peace. For about half an hour. The train pulls away on time, and I settle back with my coffee and croissant. Somehow I’ve managed to manhandle my suitcase, the Hula-Hoop, the foam roller, and the carrier bags through the carriage—although it took two trips—and thankfully the train is pretty empty. I sit all alone at a four-seater table, watching London ebb away, feeling as though I’m leaving some of my stress behind with it. The pollution, the noise, the busyness … that can all stay behind.

I look out of the window and try to focus on my wellness project. But instead I find myself thinking, why did Asher commission that series of “work language” workshops? It was such a waste of time.

And why do we have to write two different monthly reports in two different formats?

And did anyone follow up on that total fail by Craig’s team? Because I can tell you exactly why it happened; it was because—

“Ladies and gentlemen …”

The sound of an announcement jolts me from my thoughts and I blink. Shit. This is all wrong. Why am I thinking about work? I need to leave my job behind. But it has a big loud voice and it won’t shut up, and it seems to be coming with me.

I open up the 20 Steps app and scroll through, looking for advice, till I find the section on meditation.

Try writing troublesome worries down. Don’t filter, just write. Then thank your brain for its thoughts and put them aside for now.

OK. Good idea. I pick up my pens, turn to the back of my bullet journal, and start writing furiously.

Half an hour later, I look up blearily and realize I have writer’s cramp. What the hell? Almost in bewilderment, I leaf back through the pages I’ve filled. I had no idea I had so many thoughts about Zoose. I had no idea I was so … Well. Livid.

I rub my face and breathe out. Maybe that was good. I’ve emptied my brain of bad stuff, and now I can let in the positive stuff.

Thank you, brain, for your thoughts, I say firmly to myself. But now let’s move on, OK?

I turn to the front of the bullet journal, write a big heading—BURNOUT CURE: 20 STEPS—and then decorate it with my gel pens. I’m just about to add some stickers when we arrive at Reading and some more passengers come on. Most of them see my pink Hula-Hoop and immediately head the other way (I don’t blame them), but an elderly man in a yellow waistcoat seems undaunted by the sight and comes to sit right opposite me, even though there’s a spare four-seater table across the way.

“Going to join the circus, are you?” he quips, and my heart sinks slightly, because he’s clearly a talker. Sure enough, after the inspector’s checked our tickets and explained to me about changing at Campion Sands, the elderly man leans across the table, his eyes beady.

“Going all the way to Rilston Bay, are you? You’ll need help getting your stuff off and onto the shuttle train at Campion Sands. Lucky for you, I’m going to Campion Sands. I’ll help you onto your next train, if you like.”

“Thank you so much.” I shoot him a grateful smile, hoping it also conveys, Let’s stop talking now, but he ignores that bit.

“Live in Rilston, do you?”

“No, I’m just going to stay there.”

“Didn’t think I knew you.” He nods, satisfied. “Been there before?”

“When I was a child, we went on holiday every year.”

“Then you’ll remember me!” he exclaims, animated. “I’m Keith Hardy. Or I should use my other name—Mr. Poppit! HELLO, BOYS AND GIRLS!” he suddenly screeches, to my horror, making everyone in the carriage jump. “It’s Mr. Poppit! Big red puppet, stripy hat? I have a stand on the beach every year. You must remember Mr. Poppit! You must have watched my show!”

This all rings a dim bell. But I find puppets totally creepy, so there’s no way I would have watched his show.

“Maybe,” I say cautiously. “I do remember Terry, who ran the Surf Shack.”

“Well, of course you do,” says Keith, his face falling a bit. “Everyone remembers Terry. Who doesn’t know Terry?”

It’s all coming back to me now. There were two surf shops, right next door to each other on the beach. The general assumption was that they were deadly rivals and you had to pick your side, like the Montagues and the Capulets. There was the Surf Shack, run by Terry, and Surftime, run by Pete, but all the regulars went to the Surf Shack, because Terry was the most awesome surf teacher in the world. The most awesome person in the world. Some people in life are just head and shoulders above everyone else. They’re superior to the rest of us. And everyone recognizes it.

Terry was prematurely gray, but he had a body as tough as a tree and blue, twinkly eyes, and he knew us all. Pete was friendly enough—but he wasn’t Terry. I can still hear Terry’s brusque voice in my head, hoarsened by years of shouting over the wind. In fact, his words of wisdom quite often come back to me at random times. “Don’t worry!” he’d exclaim, if some nervous child was overthinking it. “Why are you worrying about the sea? The sea sure as hell isn’t worrying about you!”

Memories of the Surf Shack are rushing into my head. The dimness as you went in, after the glare of the beach. The smell of neoprene. The grown-up surfers hanging out on the little deck, wearing bright board shorts or wetsuits undone to the waist, exchanging stories. I remember queuing for a bodyboard, popping with impatience because we were missing the best waves with every second. Rilston is famous for its massive swell in winter—but those smaller summer waves were perfect for us children, still learning how to clamber up onto a board. Terry’s wife, Sandra, would take our names, write down the entries in the book, never hurrying, never skipping a detail. “Name?” she said every single time. She knew our names, but we still had to spell them out.