The last day had an odd dream-like quality. There should have been dark skies, drizzle and heavy traffic. Instead, I soared and swooped over the top of the Downs in brilliant sunshine. At work, the few of us left congregated and sat on desks chatting easily. At times the smiles were a touch rueful, but we were smiling. The mood was of gentle optimism, and plans for the future were shared. One, who had been struggling to balance the needs of a disabled husband and a demanding job, said she wasn't ready for retirement yet and was starting work as a volunteer at a refuge for the homeless. Another said she longed to return to her original interest in oncology, and was looking for work in this area. A colleague, recently emerged from the depths of s stress-related illness, was starting up a business offering life-coaching and support to others in a similar situation. I pondered over how it was possible to work with someone for years yet know so little of their dreams.
We wandered off at some point to a local pub for lunch (no hurrying the staff to serve us quickly, no anxious glances at watches, no mutterings about meetings), then eventually strolled back down tree-lined roads and through the heavy black security gates for the last time. A few last photos: P grinning next to the empty red double-decker lunchtime bus, a view of the the drive with its imposing cedars, all of us on the steps in front of the art-deco building where it all started eighty years ago. Then, gradually, people said goodbye and drifted away one by one. As I drove home the sun was hot though the windscreen and I felt like I was floating. Louis Armstrong came on the radio. "We have all the time in the world". Yes, I thought. That is exactly how I feel.
