Things to Do in January

Cara stared out the window as her coffee machine spluttered its vital produce into a large yellow mug. She watched the New Years Resolutions jog past, pale and determined. Whatever else was going wrong in her life, at least she had managed to resist the urge to practice self-love through punitive torture until January 17 and the inevitable collapse onto the sofa, alone, with a sharing bag of chocolate.

The mug had "World's Best Carer" emblazoned across it, comic-book style. The title no longer applied, not that the first two words ever had; she had walked out of the nursing home in mid-December after three 14-hour shifts in a row had threatened to become four. Her last pay packet had arrived a couple of days earlier, as had the realisation that she had really better start looking - for a lot of things.

The problem with her first and most important search was that she really wasn't qualified to do very much. Another job in care would be easy to come by, despite her recent history, for the same reason that her recent history had occurred: permanent understaffing, everywhere. She couldn't do it anymore, so it would have to be a sideways-shuffle into another unskilled job.

She dispatched her CV to half a dozen hotels, claiming a passionate desire to clean rooms and make beds. Following a little tweaking, a credulous reader might have believed that she simply loved to make people happy by selling them tat. Satisfied, she sent this version to five retailers. That took her up to 10:30am and another coffee, re-using the lying mug, because it was the biggest she owned. She would keep it because, frankly, it remained her only souvenir of a ten-year 'career'.

Next, the personal growth section of her list had to be fulfilled. She browsed all the local evening classes, craft groups and social clubs, eventually settling on a French class. It was, after all, possible that she would remember something from school and get a bit of a head start. Maybe.

Cara took a deep breath. Now the hard part. She opened a website she hadn't touched in two years and was immediately confronted by a smug red alert.

"Wrong login details." it alleged. "Click the Reset Your Password button below to log in."

She clicked.

"Enter your email address." prompted the Overlord of her future happiness. She did, and her phone pinged.

Her brain had already begun to rebel. This hadn't worked the last twenty times, had it?

There's been the one lying about his age, who was pretty sure her dad knew somehow; there's been no-I-don't-have-a-girlfriend, the man with a remarkable amount of make-up in his bathroom cabinet, discovered the sickening morning after while her head was already thumping.

There was the weirdo BDSM obsessive who'd managed to come across as normal over text but then brought up ropes vs handcuffs before the starters had arrived. As a result of the conversation's rapid descent into How do you feel about blood?, the starters were as far as they got.

At least he'd warned her about what he was into, unlike the random neck-grabbing psycho.

Cara shuddered. No, not that again. Single was better than that. She'd make some new friends and hang out with them every weekend. It would be fine.

Yes, it would be fine.

That left one last New Year commitment: the return of the record-breakingly late library books. They had been sitting accusingly in the corner of bedroom for three months; the one she hadn't read glowered the most. She collected the five of them into a reuseable bag, ran a brush through her hair and headed out. The library was close, highlighting the ridiculousness of leaving it as long as she had to go there.

Her face started burning in anticipation even as she stood in the short queue at the desk. By the time the two customers before her had gone, she was nearly at the stammering stage, so she said nothing. The librarian glared as she scanned them.

"These are extremely late. You're lucky we have abolished fines." It was obvious that she thoroughly approved of fines.

"I'm sorry." said Cara quietly as the woman placed the unread book on the top of the pile beside her.

Someone behind her laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh that would have been a pleasant sound if it hadn't been at her. Her hackles rose but she decided not to react.

"That one is an extremely bad book." said the owner of the laugh. "I'm not surprised it took you ages to suffer through it. They shouldn't stock such utter shit. When you go looking for anything decent, it's always hidden in the back."

It was the librarian's turn to bristle. She reached out to take a shiny white textbook from the laughowner's hands. Cara's clumsy brain finally realised that she was in the way. It transmitted the message more quickly to one foot than the other, so that she tripped over herself stepping back. The grateful-but-dignified smile she had been planning to flash at the man behind her disappeared in a little shriek as she attempted to catch herself and failed.

The Stranger, acquiring capital letter status via her utter shame, looked down at her oddly while she sat there. Her situation was not helped by the realisation that he looked like he'd stepped off the front cover of Great Cheekbones Monthly, the ALSO AWESOME HAIR! special edition. Of course she'd never fall over in front of an ugly man. That would be so unembarrassing as to be totally pointless.

"Do you need a hand up?"

"No."

She stood.

"Walking lessons?"

She laughed. "I'm not sure how much you can improve on that, after a certain age."

"Un café?" he tried, flapping the French textbook he'd just checked out at her.

"You speak French?"

"Nope, but I'm starting an evening class next week. I'm hoping I remember something from school."

Cara's eyes widened. This year was looking good already.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed writing this story. If you liked it, please leave a heart or a comment!