Wednesday again

It's a Wednesday some months on, at twenty-five past eight, and you're in the car park at work. You reach into your bag for your pass and find an envelope. It's the cheque for Sam's music lessons, which should have gone in on Monday.

"You idiot" arrives on schedule, as it still does. You hear it, and you almost smile, because it sounds so exactly like your father. You think, "That's the commentary." Then you ask what you'd say to Anna, and you say it, using your own name. "It's a cheque. It's two days late. Ring the office."

You ring. It's fine, and it takes a minute. On the walk across the car park you think about it for a moment longer, as a practical matter. It's the second time something's got lost in that bag. When you get to your desk you put a reminder in your phone to go through Sam's school bag with him on Sunday evenings, and that's the end of it. Nothing follows you across the car park.

At eleven you're presenting, and you lose your thread for a moment and have to check your notes. There's a flicker of "they all saw that". You let it pass. Nobody's face has changed. You find your place and carry on, and you're able to listen to the questions at the end, because you're not busy going back over the slip.

Last month there was a real mistake. You sent a client a contract with the wrong terms, and it cost the firm some money and you an uncomfortable meeting. The old commentary had a great deal to say, and for a day it said it. Then you wrote down what had happened, in plain sentences. You told your manager before she found out, which you wouldn't have done a year ago. You apologised to the client, fixed what could be fixed, and changed how you check contracts. It was a bad week, but it didn't turn into a bad month. Your manager said she appreciated being told straight away.

You've stopped saying "I'm so stupid" out loud. It took a few weeks. Last Tuesday Sam knocked a full glass of juice over his homework, and you heard him say, "Oops. Okay. Kitchen roll." You don't know whether that's anything to do with you, but you noticed it.

Anna rang on Saturday. You talked for an hour, and at one point you told her about the contract, and she said, "Oh, love. You told them straight away, that's the hard part." You let her say it and didn't argue.

Some things haven't changed. You still have high standards, and your work is as careful as ever. It may be better, since you now look at your mistakes and don't flinch from them. The commentary still turns up, mostly when you're tired. You signed up for the evening class in the autumn. You're the worst in the group at the moment, and you find you can stand it.

The midnight review is mostly gone. When it starts, you say, "That's been dealt with," and usually it has been.

Here's one action. Think of the last thing you called yourself an idiot for. Write down, in two or three sentences, what you'd have said to a friend who'd done the same. Then read it back to yourself, using your own name.