Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I need to distract myself.
Eddie’s name flashes up on my phone. Thank goodness.
I answer with, “I was just about to call you.”
“I’m so stressed out,” she replies.
I tuck a pillow behind me and lean against the headboard. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got a lot of deadlines coming up. They’ve all sort of crescendoed at the same time. And the economics is… I’m just finding it really difficult.”
Sometimes I wish I’d gone to university. I loved Portland, but I didn’t find any of it really difficult. I wasn’t stretched intellectually. And it wasn’t the university experience—there were few nights out, and only one guy in our year. I can’t compare my further education to Eddie’s. I could have gone to university, but I was set on being a nanny. Portland always felt like the right decision, especially after the accident. But when Eddie talks about university, I’m aware that I missed out.
“Do you think you need an external economics tutor?” I ask. “Maybe just for a few months to get your confidence back.” With this job, I can definitely afford it.
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I’m in the right frame of mind.”
“Hmmm, like you’re self-sabotaging or something?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I’ve got to the point where I’m almost scared to sit down and open the textbook. The lectures are so intimidating.”
“Are other people in the lecture feeling the same way?” I ask.
“Not Milton,” she says about her best friend. “He’s loving it.”
“Would he tutor you?”
She sighs. “Maybe. I haven’t thought about that actually.”
“Sometimes you’re too hard on yourself. You probably understand more than you think.”
“Not in this case. I just didn’t expect it to be so…mathematical.”
“But you can do mathematical. I bet you’re avoiding it because you think it’s difficult, but if you spent as much time on the economics as you did the lectures you enjoyed, you’d find it a lot easier.”
“That’s probably true. I’m making it worse for myself.”
“It’s a natural response. We want to do what we’re good at already, and avoid the things that take more work to unpack. Don’t beat yourself up. You got this.”
“Maybe if I just did fifteen minutes a day…” she says, almost to herself.
To my mind, that doesn’t seem like enough time, but fifteen minutes might lead to half an hour, which might lead to more understanding, which might improve her confidence. “That sounds like a great plan. De-chunk it.”
She chuckles. We’re both thinking about the same thing—the summer we went to Wales when I was thirteen. Even though Eddie had only been four at the time, the three of us had talked about it so much ever since, I think it kept the memories fresh for her. It was one of the few family holidays we had where we actually spent time with our parents. We’d been like a proper family, playing with our dad on the beach. I remember looking around, seeing if anyone was looking at us with the same feeling of jealousy that I used to feel, looking at kids playing with their parents in the pool or on the beach. I remember feeling…proud. Proud that I had a dad who wanted to play in the sand.
“That sandcastle was awesome.”
Dylan had found a picture of an oversized, intricate sandcastle and announced at breakfast that he wanted to make it. Gabby, our longtime nanny, said she’d try to help. Dad looked up from his paper and examined the picture. Dylan didn’t ask Dad to help. There’s no way he would have considered that Mum or Dad would come down to the beach, let alone play with us. None of us would have expected it. We spent our days with Gabby, while Mum and Dad did…who knows what. Looking back, Dad probably worked. Mum probably went to the spa or worked. It was what happened in London, but we just transported to Wales for a couple of weeks.
And we had fun, the three of us and Gabby.
But that one day in Wales, Mum and Dad came to the beach and Dad helped us build the most awesome sandcastle ever seen in Europe. I’m sure it’s the memory the three of us think about most when our parents come to mind. Dad kept reassuring us that the key to replicating the sandcastle in Dylan’s picture was to “de-chunk it.”
And he was right. We stopped looking at the sandcastle as one structure and focused on distinct parts. The base. The middle. The turrets. The decoration. The flag at the top. What we ended up with was awesome.
Whenever I have a problem, I always give myself the same advice. Just break it down. De-chunk it.
“Thanks, Eira. You’ve always got the right answer.”
I laugh. “You came up with that all by yourself.”
“But only because I’m talking to you. Your wisdom slithered down the phone.” She gives me too much credit. I didn’t do anything at all. “Tell me about you,” Eddie says. “How’s the new job?”