**Diary Entry 12th October**
I was clearing out the shed today, tossing out rubbish and old junk, piling it all up in the yard. Then I spotted a thin, grubby little bookprobably left by the kids. I opened it and started reading. One line jumped out at me: *”Was a man born just to dig the dirt and die, without even scratching out his own grave?”*
It hit me like a bolt. Thats exactly what Ive been doing. What have I seen in my life? Work, nothing but work. From my youth until nowgardening, mending fences, painting gates. Every spring, breaking my back over the allotment. My wife and I even took on another plot, wasted our best years on it.
The house and land turned us into slaves. Now were both bent with age, little humps on our backs. Weve seen nothing! Never been anywhere. Just dulled by labour, hands stained with soil, eyes fixed on the ground. And my wifewashing, cooking, stewing, jams and pickles, endless worry over putting food on the table.
Gorky was right in *Makár Chudrá*mans a slave. Always fretting over his next meal. Never read a book, never touched culture. Cant string two proper words together. My heart ached. Felt like my whole life had gone to the dogs. Somewhere out there, theatres shine, palm trees sway, clever folk talk about clever thingsbut here we are, peasants still, just like we always were.
And the kids? Same path. Same fate. Whatve I known? Never owned a decent suit. Never been further than Cornwallnot even London! Flown once in my life. Taken the train a handful of times.
Just the yard, the garden, the chickens. Work till holiday comes, then work at home. Wife always bustling. One day Ill kick the bucket*”without even scratching out my own grave.”* Fine words.
I smoothed the grimy little book with my hand. Took it inside, left it on the sideboard. Couldnt bring myself to throw it away. Everyone ought to read itmake em think about their own chains.
Evening came. Sat with the wife in the twilight, no lamps lit. Told her my thoughtsabout slavery, about digging dirt, how lifes slipped past us. Soon well be gone, and whatve we seen but vegetable patches? What was it all for? Lifes given once, and we wasted ours.
She didnt answer. Got up, fetched water for the flowers. Then pulled fresh sheets from the cupboard, made the bed. Lay down. Turned to me and said, *”Come to bed. Enough chatter.”*
Neither of us slept. I could tell she was awakesighing. Then she turned and said, *”Not everyones meant to be a Darwin or a Shackleton. God kissed them different. The rest of us? Told to take joy in the work, in the land. Raise the kids. Dig the potatoes. No use staring at the great ones.”*
She paused, then added she was no slave. Did what she wanted, what pleased her. Nothing to regret.
I got up, threw on my old jumper. Stepped outside. Stars glowed gold overhead. Lit a fag, sat on the step.
*”Blimey, my wifes sharp. Fifty years together and I never knew.”*
Tends the house, feeds us all, keeps everything clean. And shes no slave. Because God kissed her for thisfor the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends there.
*”Whod have thought it? What a woman.”*
**Lesson learnt:** Sometimes the deepest wisdom isnt in books. Its in the quiet words of the woman whos lived beside you half a century.
