Life lessons

My recent disappearance has been mainly due to pride, namely the swallowing and surprise regaining of it. 


I'm now a manual labourer, painting the interior of a Globe colleague's house because a) I have nothing to do, and b) he has lots of bare walls. But what began as a grand idea turned into stark reality on Tuesday, when I went with T. to work so said colleague could give me the key.


We go up the ramp, and I wince as T. sails by the empty parking spots at the lot's periphery. "Can't we just stop here?" I ask, but he says no, he's meant to park in his allotted spot, just steps from the door. The fact that the car will be there for only a couple of minutes doesn't seem to occur to him.
I couldn't go inside the building, though. Having been in there as an award-winning journo, I couldn't bring myself to walk in as a manual labourer (in suitably daggy painting clothes).
So I hunched in the car to wait for my colleague. And naturally, that's when the National editors walk out to have a smoke. As I sit in a car just metres away. Trying to be invisible. Didn't work.


Despite my deep belief in the value of manual work and in the people who do it, I am a bit ashamed to admit I had to swallow my pride to go there myself. Do I think myself above it? If so, is that warranted?
These were the questions flitting through my mind as I sanded, washed, taped and painted the trim and doors on the second floor this week. 
And part way though, as I carefully slapped on the white gloss and assiduously cleaned up after myself, I realised why I was making such an effort: pride. I want to be proud of this, as proud as I am of anything I do.


I need to believe in the value of what I do, instead of judging my efforts by the world's pecking order. Methinks this is a good lesson for a whatever adventures are ahead.