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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
Does this ring any bells? Mortgaged to the hilt, rising at 5.30 to commute across three counties to jobs in Dublin, fed-up, bleary-eyed and only in your thirties? Michael Kelly and his wife were classic Celtic Cubs. Then they simplified, down-sized, opted out. Now they live happily in a leaky cottage in Dunmore East, their ties with the capital severed and their careers as corporate drones abandoned. They grow vegetables and rear an ever-expanding coterie of animals: laying hens, a cock named Roger and pigs called Charlotte and Wilbur. And they don't hate Mondays anymore! This is an extremely humorous, thought provoking account of one couple's discovery that there is an alternative to the consumer driven lifestyle. As Michael Kelly describes the hilarious hazards of rural life as well as the advantages, he demonstrates how one brave decision can transform your life. A funny and inspiring account of the ups and downs of letting go of the Tiger. You can see Michael talking about the changes he has made to his life here (courtesy TV3): You can also read about Michael's continuing adventures with rural life on his website www.michaelkelly.ie.
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Trading Paces
From Rat Race to Hen Run
Michael Kelly
Dedication
To the long-suffering and ever-patient Mrs Kelly – none of this would have been possible without you.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to all of the following for their help and support over the past few years. My mum – the reason we gravitated to Dunmore in the first place. My sisters – Kim, Niamh, Ciara and Dara – and their respective families. My extended family in Ballygalvert – in particular the father-in-law for sage advice, the mother-in-law (hen supplier-in-chief and an inspiration when it comes to growing veg) and Stephen, for very practical assistance on gardening projects too numerous to mention.
I was given a great deal of inspiration, advice and encouragement by many friends and colleagues (past and present). If I try to list them I will invariably leave someone out, so thank you all. Our neighbours and friends here in Dunmore East, particularly Nathaniel and Ruth. To Denis Shannon and Betty Byrne for all the support and advice with the Tamworth Two. To a very talented photographer, Seamus O’Neill – just three words of advice: ‘It’s your calling.’ Patsey Murphy in The Irish Times and Sarah McDonnell in The Gloss showed a faith in my abilities without which I might never have left the IT industry – for that I owe them a debt of gratitude. Also thanks to Kate Holmquist, Clare McCarthy, Carmel Daly, Liam McAuley, Conor Goodman, Barry O’Keefe and Jane Powers in The Irish Times. Finally, to Michael O’Brien, and all at The O’Brien Press for taking a punt on Trading Paces, and Ide ní Laoghaire, my editor, for guiding things along so expertly.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I have this thing I call the Wedding Test which goes like this: you are sitting at the reception of a wedding and making small talk with the person beside you while tucking in to your slab of beef (or salmon). You have discussed the bride and groom, the bridesmaid’s dresses, the mother-of-the-bride’s hat, how nice the service was, the table centrepiece, how ridiculously OTT weddings have become (‘They spent $40,000?!! My God, are you kidding me?!’), how nervous the best man is about his speech, the institution of marriage, kids, traffic, the price of property. Having established a wine-fuelled comfortable rapport, your dinner companion feels comfortable enough with you to pop the question:
‘So, eh, what do you do?’
Up to very recently I’ve always dreaded that moment. It’s a loaded question, a question that judges you. Measures you. A question that expects. ‘What do you do?’ Four little words with a sting in the tail. Four little words, the answer to which will define you in the eyes of that person. If, for example, you say that you’re a managing director or a doctor, this will immediately establish you as a Successful Person in your dinner-companion’s eyes. Yes, we are all just that shallow.
Now, how do you feel about the answer that comes out of your mouth? Are you happy with your response? Are your proud of what you do for a living? Or at least comfortable with it? Or do you mutter something inaudible through a mouthful of roast potato and hope someone will start clinking glasses to herald the start of the speeches?
For ten years I did the latter. ‘I’m a salesman,’ I would mumble and hope that they didn’t hear me or that the person on the far side of them would ask a question and they would be distracted. Somewhere else at the table Mrs Kelly (my wife is an insanely private person and has therefore expressly forbidden me to use her first name, Eilish, anywhere in this book) would be saying, ‘I’m an accountant’ to her dinner companion and watching their eyes glaze over.
More often than not I would be too embarrassed to say, ‘I’m a salesman,’ and would say instead, ‘I work for an IT company.’ Then they would say, ‘Oh very good. Are you a programmer?’ And I would say, ‘Eh, no, I’m in sales.’ I tried to avoid the word ‘salesman’ as much as I could. I can’t really explain why I was so embarrassed by that word – and I was more embarrassed by the word than by the profession itself. The job itself I could just about handle. But the word ‘salesman’– I hated that word. (Incidentally, I’m not alone – you will never find a salesperson with the word ‘salesperson’ or ‘salesman’ on their business card. It will say ‘account manager’, ‘sales executive’, ‘new business development manager’, ‘sales account executive’, ‘sales development manager’. Pretty much anything but ‘salesperson’).
To many people the word ‘salesman’ conjures up an image of someone slightly shifty, perhaps even a bit false or smarmy. It always seems to suggest that something unpleasant is about to happen. If you ask someone what a salesperson will be like socially, they will say that they might be fun and there certainly wouldn’t be too many lulls in the conversation (sales people do like to talk, after all) – but won’t they always be looking for an angle? Can we trust them, really? We’ve become incredibly tired and cynical about sales, advertising, marketing and PR – and rightly so, in my view. We always tend to think that people in those professions are trying to con us into buying products we don’t need and, worse, they have Jedi mind-tricks up their sleeves that make us powerless to resist their charms.
Back at the dinner table, if the conversation developed beyond these initial forays, and it rarely did, I would find myself getting all defensive about my job, quite uninvited. I would say things like, ‘Well, sure, it’s only a job’ or ‘It pays the bills.’But, of course, a job is never only a job and we’re deluding ourselves when we say this. It’s far more than that. In the average working life of forty-five years, we will spend 10,800 days at work. Think about that: 10,800 days. Sounds a lot, doesn’t it? Our job is something we will be doing until we’re sixty-five – so we’d better bloody well like it.
And I was starting to realise – all too slowly – that I bloody well didn’t.
Chapter 1
RETIREMENT AS THE ULTIMATE GOAL IN LIFE
I’ve never understood why as a society we have all bought into the notion of retirement being the ultimate goal of a working life. It’s held up as this utopian destination that we’ll reach one day in the distant future when we’ll be able to kick back and enjoy life. In the meantime we are willing to put up with all manner of misery in the workplace. ‘My job’s shit, but never mind – when I get to sixty-five, then I’ll live.’ My father died when he was fifty-seven and I think that has always made me circumspect about the chances of even reaching retirement age. Imagine working away, thinking, ‘Ah, at least in eight years’ time I’ll be able to retire, then I’ll live, goddammit!’ and then, kablamo, your time is up. You’d be pretty miffed, wouldn’t you?
I remember sitting in a meeting with a pensions adviser when I was about twenty-five and he told me I had to start putting IR£400 a month into my pension fund – I had to stop myself from laughing in his face. The notion that I would deliberately deprive myself of such a large chunk of my earnings and let some bank hold onto it for the next forty years just seemed absurd to me, particularly given that I might not be around to get it back.
In your twenties you don’t tend to waste much time thinking longterm. In fact, if you think at all, it’s probably about sex or beer, and how to get your hands on lots and lots of sex and beer. You tend to ‘work to live’ as opposed to ‘live to work’ – a tired old cliché, but there’s a lot of truth in it. You work to get money to buy beer which will hopefully lead you eventually to more sex. It’s a simple formula. Your twenties was a decade for pubs, clubs, parties, sexual exploration and falling down drunk. Your thirties is a decade for getting real.
When I turned thirty I started to think long and hard about where I was going with my working life and whether I wanted to spend any more time as a salesperson. I remember reading an obituary in a newspaper one day and wondering to myself: when I die, will there be an obituary in the paper? I know that sounds painfully vain – and don’t get me wrong, I know that (a) there are loftier measures of our worth as human beings then whether we have done something newsworthy and (b) there are also other things in life that are far more important than our careers – the type of person we were, the way we treated others and so on. But you get my point. If you can wangle an obituary it probably means you have done something of note in your life. Would anyone want to write an obituary about a salesman? ‘Michael Kelly died yesterday aged 57 while in the middle of a sales pitch on storage area networks to ABC Corp. He was on slide 18 of a 138-slide PowerPoint presentation when he keeled over dead from boredom.’
In your thirties you are more than likely settled down, hopefully with the love of your life, so when it comes to sex there’s a status quo of sorts in operation – you’ve a fair idea when and how regularly it will arrive so you stop getting worked up about it in the interim. As for beer, well, for some inexplicable reason these days, two or three pints makes you slur your words and fall asleep into your pint and your hangovers now seem to last four days. You start using a phrase that you thought would never pass your lips: ‘I can’t drink any more.’ Most importantly, in your thirties you can do something which you could not do in your twenties: you can imagine yourself being forty. Or fifty. Or, God forbid, old and wrinkly. You can imagine yourself being un-cool, driving too slowly, befuddled, overly fond of routine and finding music too loud. You realise, with considerable anguish, that people in their teens and twenties now consider you to be a stuffy old fool, even though you think you’re still pretty hip.
I remember in my twenties being convinced I was going to be a millionaire. It wasn’t a childish pipedream – it was an unshakeable belief, so much so that I voiced it to other people, most notably the future Mrs Kelly back when she was my girlfriend. In fact, I think I actually wrote her a cheque for a million pounds when I got my first chequebook, which, if I am not mistaken, she still has (that’s a little freaky, come to think of it, but she was an accountant after all). I wasn’t sure how I was going to become a millionaire – I had no actual plan to achieve this grand financial milestone. As I frittered away my twenties selling IT systems I could console myself that I had lots of time to switch to that new career or stumble on that great invention or idea which would bring me my millions and allow future Mrs Kelly to cash that cheque. But in my thirties I started gradually to realise: you know what, that’s not going to happen, and that gurgling noise that I could hear in my subconscious was the sound of the last vestiges of my youthful dreams going down the plughole.
For the first time I realised that this job I was in might actually be what I would spend the rest of my life doing. That thought alone pitched me into sheer terror. You build up capital when you spend time in a job. You build up expertise, knowledge, credit, recognition, maybe even renown. All of which makes it difficult to jump ship to another career. So you don’t. You pass five years in a job, then seven, then ten. Pretty soon it’s twenty, then thirty years. Next thing you know, a young CEO is thanking you for your long years of service and handing you a gold watch and a card signed by colleagues, most of whom don’t know your name. And then? Apparently, that’s when you’re supposed to start having fun.
I couldn’t imagine being a salesman at forty years of age, never mind sixty-five, and once you arrive at that realisation, moving on becomes an absolute necessity. Thankfully, it was made less difficult by the fact that I was gradually becoming disillusioned by the corporate world and the grubby sciences that surround it: sales, marketing, PR, advertising, guff, lies, pretend, bend-a-rule, break-a-rule, tell the customer what they want to hear. In my last five years working in sales I built up what I consider to be a healthy suspicion about the corporate motive. When it comes to the crunch, capitalism is cold and brutal, and its overriding loyalty is delivering profit to shareholders. Companies don’t really give a rats about the people they employ. We are expendable. We are a means to an end. Most of us know this but we forget at times in our lives and think the company we work for is somehow different. Or we think that we are somehow different – better and therefore immune.
My reasons for staying put for nearly ten years in a job I disliked were varied and complex. Firstly there was that general malaise and fear of the unknown that cripples us all to some degree. The fact that I was earning really good money was also a factor – good wages are very seductive and it’s tough to deliberately turn off the tap. Bizarrely, earning good money tends to tie you down – ‘I’m earning good money,’ you tell yourself, ‘so now’s a good time to borrow!’ I seemed to have accumulated a dizzying array of fiscal responsibilities – mortgage, loans, credit-card bills. You can’t just give up your job and live on air, can you? And anyway, even if I did move on, what would I move on to? Sales is quite specialised. People think that a salesman is skilled at selling and can sell anything. But that’s not quite true. What I was good at was selling IT systems; I could no more move to selling, say, chemicals, than I could move to being a racing driver. I could move to a different IT company, but that would just be the same shit, different venue. So on Fridays I would open the jobs supplement believing firmly that some new career, some ideal job would magically pop out from the page, delivering me from my purgatory. But it never happened, probably because I didn’t have any clue what the ideal job was.
There’s a saying that if you can work at something you love, you will never work a day in your life. It sounds wonderful, but, I wondered, are there really people out there for whom that holds true? When I thought about it, which I did frequently, there were two possible jobs that I considered would be my dream jobs: something to do with music or something to do with writing. Both of those things were hobbies of mine. But just how do you go about turning a hobby into a job, what you might call a jobby? So I stayed put. And the years rolled past.
When I look back on it now, I feel pretty mad that I wasted so many years whining and moaning and doing damn all to change my situation. I’m convinced that there is one reason we settle down, comfortable but unhappy, in the little rut we scratch out for ourselves: consumerism. Consumerism is a vast, highly complex conspiracy. It keeps us wedged in jobs we don’t like, working every day God sends so that we can keep paying for the cobble-lock driveway, the iPods, MP3 players, spanking new Mini Cooper convertible, hot-tubs, a collection of DVDs we will never watch and CDs we will rarely listen to, 55-inch, high-definition plasma TVs, gym subscriptions, pilates programmes, yoga holidays. As a wise man once said, we are more eager to amass than to realise.
The real genius of this conspiracy is that we remain completely oblivious to the fact that if we simplified our lives slightly and got rid of (or didn’t buy) the stuff we don’t really need we mightn’t have to work as hard or for as long. Or even more intriguing, we could choose to work at something we love even if it didn’t pay so well. The conspiracy has been so successful it has warped the nature of work itself beyond all recognition. Work is no longer a means to an end; it is no longer a way to provide food and shelter for ourselves and our loved ones. It has become, instead, something we MUST spend an entire lifetime doing and all the while the original objective, ie providing food and shelter, becomes a sort of by-product. If we don’t buy into this model, we are considered slackers, wasters, losers. We are not game-players. Work has become so all-encompassing it has relegated living our lives to second place.
This book doesn’t pretend to know how to unravel that complex conspiracy completely or even slightly. All it shows is how two people shouted ENOUGH and then started to simplify, to downshift. To opt out. If we can claim any credit at all, which we don’t, it is that we finally came to a really small but very important (and entirely obvious) realisation: less money going out means you need less money coming in. And that opens up a whole world of opportunities. All of which is really easy to say, fairly easy to type, but very hard to do. It means flipping everything you know on its head.
Economists tell us that cheaper credit has liberated Irish people. When interest rates were 18 percent or whatever they were in the bad old days, people could only afford a house worth IR£20,000 and the repayments still swallowed up half their salaries. These days interest rates are as close to 0% as they can be (although they are creeping up) so we can afford to spend $800,000 on a two-bedroomed townhouse in some previously rural town about two hours’ drive from work, can’t we? One hundred percent mortgages are almost the norm so there’s not even a necessity to save a deposit these days. Whenever any pundit pops up on TV or radio to offer the possibility that this might not be the greatest idea in the world, they get shot down as if just by mentioning it they are not playing ball. Shame on you, Sir! Cheap credit has made us free!
Arse! Cheap credit has made us slaves! Hundreds of thousands of couples locked into thirty- and forty-year mortgages with repayments that are so high there will never be any other option but for both of them to work all the hours God sends. Forty years! What age will they be when they finally get their mortgage paid off? Sixty-five. Ah! Retirement age – the Garden of Eden, El Dorado, Nirvana, the old utopian chestnut, the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow. An entire working life dedicated to paying off a bank that makes more money in a minute than you would in a hundred lifetimes. And because both parents have to work to pay off the mortgage, the little darling they brought into the world gets plonked into a crèche from dawn to dusk. You’re not happy about it, but what other option do you have? The exorbitant costs of childcare lock down the rut even further until there is literally no way out of it. That’s not freedom. It’s a modern form of slavery.
Part of the problem is the desire to amass, to have stuff. We discovered that it’s only when you accept that as fact, that you can start to consider downshifting as an option. Our aspirations too keep us trapped just as surely as a monthly mortgage repayment and in some ways they are harder to let go of. Aspirations can be just as tight-fitting a straitjacket as things. Downshifting isn’t easy in modern society because it is all about accepting that less is more. It’s about making sacrifices. It’s about saying: I do not want a house as big as our neighbours. I do not want a new car. I don’t want three holidays a year. In modern Ireland, which is fundamentally about wanting pretty much everything and where our value as a person is measured by how much stuff we own, downshifting is also about ploughing a lonely furrow.
Now, I began to say to myself, what if you worked at something you love and you don’t want to retire when you’re sixty-five? Imagine the freedom that would grant you? Then you wouldn’t need to be giving $500 a month to the pensions people. And on your spreadsheet where you mark down all your incomings and outgoings, you can take $500 out of the outgoings column. And that’s when I began to see the first chink of light.
Well, if I need $500 less each month, I thought, then I can afford to earn $500 less. Right now. And maybe instead of working twelve hours a day I can work, let’s say, eight or seven or six. Or maybe four days a week instead of five. The extra free time would be sort of like moving retirement forward by thirty-five years or so. Which makes sense because at least I know that now I am blessed with the good health to enjoy it. Now I was starting to see the potential.
I began to wonder was there anything else I could take out of the outgoings column. There was a car loan for $400 a month. It’s a hell of a nice car. But how much free time would $400 a month buy me, if I was to sell it off and buy something cheaper? I was making progress.
But I needed to take stock. What was I good at? How could I begin to make these changes? Could I make a living from a jobby?
Chapter 2
HELP, HELP! THE SKY IS FALLING!
In my mid-twenties I tried writing a book in my spare time and sometimes (whisper it) at my desk at work. It was called The First-time Buyer’s RANT. We were buying our first house at the time and basically the book was a long series of complaints about all the stuff that first-time buyers have to put up with: never-ending snag-lists, dodgy builders, bone-idle solicitors, absentee electricians, bathroom-tile salespeople and so on. The title, a clever if rather obvious pun on the first-time buyer’s grant, was the best thing about the book and it all went downhill from there. Undeterred, I printed off a few chapters and sent them to some publishers, most of whom studiously ignored it. One well-known Irish publisher gave it a proper look, sending me into a brief spin of nervous excitement, but eventually they sent me a rejection slip. That’s the only thing JK Rowling and I will ever have in common.
The year I turned thirty I decided that my deliverance was to be found in the music industry, more specifically by releasing an album. Clearly, this was the manifestation of an early-onset midlife crisis. Some men buy a Porsche or have a tempestuous affair with Jenny from Accounts – I convinced myself I was going to be a rock star. It sounds gloriously self-delusional now, but in my twenties I did earn some money singing and playing guitar in pubs. Though quite what made me think I had what it took to make it big in the music business is another story. Anyway, there was a flurry of creative activity and a few months later I had written about twenty songs – they were mostly crap, but hey, at least I was prolific. That summer I spent my two-week holiday holed up in a record producer’s gaff recording the songs and subsisting on a diet of tea, crisps and McVitie’s Boasters. I’d like to say that I embraced the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, but in fact I found it sort of irritating. Would it have killed him to lay on a few decent sandwiches or a bowl of fruit, for example? Our views on what constitutes a working day were also hopelessly out of sync – he wouldn’t get out of bed until the afternoon and would work until the wee hours of the morning, which didn’t suit me at all. Sure, I wanted to release a hit album – but I wanted to do it during business hours (I was still a corporate man then). And then there was all that tobacco he was smoking – had he ever heard of the smoking ban in the workplace, I wondered, gasping in desperation? The album was produced on a shoestring – the producer wanted a full sound on all the songs but we couldn’t afford to hire musicians, so we played all the instruments between the two of us and production techo-wizardry did the rest. If Mrs Kelly was bothered by the fact that her husband was off blowing the annual holiday budget on a misguided musical opus, she never let on.
On the album cover there’s a cringe-making photo of me sitting amongst three mannequins in a shop window (a long story) looking decidedly uncomfortable – perhaps I was aware even then that thirty-year-old salesmen have no place on the front cover of an album and that I needed to cop myself on a small bit. I got a hundred copies pressed and even set up a website where you could buy the album and listen to sample tracks. Strangely, once I had all that done, I sort of lost interest. I sent off some copies to record companies and radio stations, half-expecting a limo to pull up at the front door at any moment to whisk me off to my new life as a superstar and half-knowing that this wouldn’t happen. The next steps should have involved the hard graft that all successful artists have to go through to get their big break – knocking on doors, gigging every two-bit venue in the country etc. But my heart just wasn’t in it. One DJ on Today FM, AM Kelly (no relation, incidentally), took one of the songs, ‘Mr Brown’s War’, to heart and gave it some airplay (well, she played it twice, which was hardly high-rotation). I also played a gig in Whelan’s in Dublin, but everyone in the audience was either a friend or a family member – there may have been one other guy there too but I think he was lost. Those brief forays into stardom were to be the high point of a short-lived musical career. Feeling pretty dejected that the world at large seemed spectacularly disinterested in my debut book and my debut album, I went back to selling.
Thankfully, while I was faffing about writing books that no one wanted to read and releasing albums that no one wanted to listen to, Mrs Kelly was busy making real plans to improve our lot in life. She called me one day from work to say that she had been on the internet and had found an old cottage in the countryside that she wanted us to go see. I should explain that after living in sin together for years in apartments and flats in Dublin, early married life and economic realities saw us buying a house in Gorey, County Wexford, which was about as close to the capital (eighty kilometres away) as we could afford. These days, Gorey is practically a suburb of Dublin, but back then we and our fellow estaters blazed a bit of a trail in terms of having such a long commute to work. People thought we were nuts when we told them that we were traversing six counties a day just to get to work. That’s thirty counties a week – almost a united Ireland.
At that stage we were both working for companies in Dun Laoghaire so we used to commute together, which lightened the load somewhat. We had plenty of what relationship counsellors call ‘quality time’ tog ether. The journey was a tough old slog, but we just got on with it and if people said, ‘God, that must be tough’, we would actually defend the lunacy of a three-hour daily commute. We would say things like, ‘Ah it’s not too bad actually, it’s not a bad road’ or ‘We’re lucky, we share the driving’, or my favourite: ‘I actually like driving.’ It took us two years to realise that it’s not really living in the proper sense of the word to spend fifteen hours a week driving to your job.
Amazingly, a whole generation of us have come to accept this as the norm – I heard a guy on the radio recently who commutes from Kilkenny every day to Dublin. It takes him over two hours EACH WAY. That’s four hours a day, twenty hours a week, about forty days a year spent in the car getting to work. Imagine how things were a hundred years ago for people in Kilkenny. They might have got to Dublin once a year, or once in a lifetime. It would have been an excursion, a trip, an event. It would have been planned for and taken seriously. Sandwiches would have been made, stop-offs planned, rugs brought along to drape over frigid knees. Now, people do it every day – just to get to work. It’s crazy.
Our first house was the quintessential Celtic Tiger dwelling – a three-bed semi-D in a sprawling estate on the outskirts of a town on the southernmost extremity of the Dublin commuter belt. It was a grand little house – there are thousands the very same in every town in Ireland. All the little culs-de-sac in the estate had ridiculous horsey names designed to try and evoke the countryside: The Canter, The Gallops, The Neigh, The Trots.
When you don’t know anyone in an estate it can be a terrifyingly soulless place to live. Full as it was of commuters, most of the houses stood empty for twelve hours a day from Monday to Friday and when we were there we were either lying half-dead on the sofa, or sleeping, eating and catching up on laundry. We tried to blend in with the local community as best we could, but we had no connection with Gorey whatsoever. We knew no one and given that we were mainly too tired to socialise, there was little prospect of us ever getting to know anyone.
