Time for work

Time for work, even though I’d rather stay here, sitting in my chalet, in my armchair. I only work down the road in the greenhouses, so there’s no rush, just another few minutes to observe my abode where I have lived for five months. I really do like it, even though it’s nothing more than a bedsit. Below the main windows is a maple sideboard upon which are three vases, no plants in them yet, and a cream coloured dial telephone. The wallpaper is a dark patterned green, and my television is 18-inches, with varnished wooden sides, housed in a television cabinet, below which I keep several magazines, most of them on gardening. I have an ornament of a white cat on my glass-top coffee table. In one corner I have a yellow cylindrical lamp. Yes, this is me, a 57 year old gardener with a yearning for the seventies. That was my time. That was when I was most happiest, so if I can glean anything from that period, then I collect it and bring it here, to my little abode.

Well, the clock ticks on, and it’s time for work. I stand up and head straight for the door. Outside I look at my little patch of land in front of the chalet. It’s a small lawn bordered with bunches of white roses. There is no fence or gate, so I step onto the pavement, looking both ways along the road, not with the intention of crossing, but to see if there are any other people up and out of their chalets which line both sides of the road. No, there never is, but I always like to check. There are also no vehicles yet, but there will be though, there always are, and I wish I could go back into my home to indulge and reminisce about how things used to be. The sixties and seventies, I remember them as though they were last week. If only I could go back there, but no, I have to go to work, and walk the quiet road, past the other chalets, some empty, some occupied. Occupied by other workers who are employed in different factories around here. Only two other people tend to the greenhouses where I am going. They work at different times. Hundreds work in other plantations around this area, but this is mine. You could say I’ve almost claimed it for myself, but I can’t do that. I work for an organisation, of whom I am only a simple employee.

Here we are, the end of the road. On its left side are the vast greenhouses. I do enjoy my work, I must admit. I’m quite happy being alone with the plants, minding my own business and tending to theirs. I suppose I’d better go in. I wonder when they’re going to complete this road. It’s been like this for a while. It blends into a vast desert of red sand. In the distance there are red mountains, and when I look up, I see that somewhere up there is my real home, planet Earth. Hopefully one day I won’t have to wear this restrictive spacesuit. For now though, I call the planet Mars home.