Making a Run For It

Giving up the city - the well paid job, the designer suits (Primark is designer isn't it?), the girlie lunches and the general fisticuffs of normal office life - wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't sit down over a period of weeks/months/years and work out my finances or embark on a specific plan of action or anything like that.

I'm a spontaneous type of person, a free-flyer, a 'go with the flow' sort - which is another way of saying I couldn't organised a piss up in a brewery if my life depended on it.

No, leaving the city was more a case of screaming 'I can't stand this any more!' and legging it, literally sprinting across Victoria Square vowing never to return. I think I flipped the bird at some point, possibly hissed 'Bar stewards!' a few times, quite loudly I think.

It was a combination of things that brought about this hasty and impromptu departure. If you were drowning, you'd reach a point where you'd think Hmm, suspect I'm about to die. If you were running towards a cliff edge at full pelt, there would be a moment when you'd realise you weren't going to be able to stop in time. It was that sort of thing.

And my age too. I never admit to my age because women don't do they, so when I say 37 you can go ahead and laugh your socks off and I won't care, I've said 37 and I'm sticking to it. Having got through a couple of husbands, a few motorbikes and three offspring of the male variety, I was a bit worn out. Knackered in fact. I had no incentive to gossip relentlessly around the photocopying machine, indulge in office politics (yawn) or fight with/off colleagues and bosses. It all got... well it got a bit tedious to be honest. Office life isn't real life is it, it's more like Big Brother without the cameras (and Louise is in the mail room throttling Karen from accounts).

It was the daily commute into the city that finally swung it. I live 3 miles from the city centre, but traffic jams and gridlocks meant I'd be sitting on the top deck of a bus for the best part of an hour or more twice a day. I'd walk to work if the bus broke down, and walk home if the snow got too deep.

It was a form of torture. You can only listen to someone else's pounding ipod for so long before the urge to shove it up their posterior becomes almost irresistible. I'm only surprised there's not more Bus Rage, with passengers 'losing it' big time on the top deck of the number nine.

I told my boss I was going into meltdown and it seriously wasn't worth it, waved at my less psychotic colleagues, and left. Permanently. Just like that. Epiphany had arrived.

Of course, Epiphany wasn't much use when I got home (it rushed off with some lame excuse about a doctor's appointment). Euphoria quickly turned into Abject Panic, and then the screaming started.

"Whatcha gonna do now then?" chanted Common Sense as it sat filing its nails with a smug look on its face. (Yeah, where was it when I walked out of my job, eh? Nowhere to be seen then was it!)

In the end I started up my own business because (a) I couldn't stand the thought of getting on another bus; (b) I couldn't stand to watch any more amateur dramatics over the filing cabinets; (c) it seemed simple enough (naïve beyond belief in retrospect); and (b) I'd always wanted to work at home because I am, at heart, idle.

I've been self-employed a while now, and there's nothing like the adrenalin rush of finding enough work every day to keep a roof over my head. Jack Osborne, Adrenaline Junkie? Pah! Bungee jumping off a mountain is nothing compared to the horror of opening up a final demand for national insurance (which I forgot to pay... again). Give him a keyboard and a list of bills to pay and see how tough he thinks he is then.

In my quest for an 'easy life' (cue hysterical laughter) I've learned a few things:

• If you don't take regular exercise you start to look like the Michelin Man rather quickly. Found a dog that didn't look like it would chew my leg off given half a chance, and started walking every day. Fighting off other dogs who seem intent on killing my dog is great exercise for both upper and lower body toning.

• Once word gets out that you're 'at home all day', friends and relatives will happily pop in for coffee and a chat at any time, and be quite put out when you push them out the door muttering wildly about deadlines.

• Doorstep and telephone salesmen only respond to expletives and strong threats of violence.

• Filling in any tax form is worse than having teeth pulled with rusty pliers whilst having pins inserted into your eyeballs and your intestines removed without the aid of anaesthetic all at the same time. Paying someone else to do it is worth Every Single Penny.

• Even with an accountant, the thieving Inland Revenue will strip you of all your clothes and leave you cold and naked while they help themselves to the contents of your bank account.

• Regardless of what your inner Slob Monster tells you, it is not alright to watch Jeremy Kyle all afternoon, play Mahjong for a couple of hours, or sit twiddling your hair and munching through a box of chocolates whilst talking to mates on the phone all day. I've always found the prospect of Crippling Poverty to be a great motivator.

• Maintain links with the outside world - snarling at doorstop salesman doesn't count as social interaction. Do lunch, do dinner, do the Girls Night Out that ends with you falling through the door at 3am covered in melted makeup and dog poo.

Being a self-employed home worker is fine if you don't mind reclusive isolation or skipping around the edges of insanity once in a while - but then, who says insanity is a bad thing?

Off now to chat to the Keyboard People and the talking cacti.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.