Kate Bohdanowicz

The other day I was enjoying a leisurely lunch with two people who used to be journalist contacts of mine and are now friends. Since leaving our respective workplaces (one took voluntary redundancy, one was made redundant and one went of their own accord) we’ve gone our different ways.

“Freelancing is feast or famine and it’s the famine I can’t handle,” said my friend who set up her own PR company three years ago. “In August I have nothing but a few weeks ago I had loads on.”

And lo is the life of the freelancer. In the past few weeks, I’ve sat in front of my computer, setting up contacts, pitching ideas (often to a blank screen as we freelance journalists are often ignored) and getting the odd crumb of work. Then when I’ve exhausted every avenue, I go back to Romeo and Juliet and try and plan for my forthcoming part-time role as an English teacher.

I’ve also had time to mow the lawn, harvest my homegrown vegetables, run, write, cook, watch films and help out with a local charity. Pottering is a perk of the freelance life.

I’ve arranged drinks and dinner with many people – catching up with old friends and forging new contacts. However, unless the money’s coming in, you do worry how you’re going to pay the bill.

“Why don’t you just relax and enjoy the summer,” asked my sister. Because I can’t. I’m a worrier. I wake up in a cold sweat, alternating between how I’m going to put food on the table and how I’m going to teach personification.

Then yesterday, my phone went three times with the offer of work. Not just a bit of work – but substantial, long-term work. How things change. Last week, I eschewed the salmon and shrimp cat biscuits in Morrisons because they were 10p more expensive than the meaty ones (sorry Waylon). Now I’m contemplating a weekend in Berlin to celebrate my boyfriend’s birthday. I'll even take him along too.

I’ve spent years working full-time. I moved to London in 1995 and until last year, I’ve commuted pretty much every day. I’m not complaining. I’ve enjoyed my career and it’s enabled me to get on the housing ladder and pay the mortgage.

But I want to live more and work less. My dad died last year. He was 67 and had retired 15 years earlier after giving up work at 52 with a bumper pension. My retirement age is 68 and if I follow in his footsteps (although I smoke fewer cigars than him so I’m hoping I don’t), I’ll be working until I die. Which is handy as I won’t have a big enough pension to live on. So with that thought on the horizon, it’s important to me that I enjoy what I do.

I’m lucky, I enjoy writing and teaching. I hope I’ll carry on doing these for ever. But I’d rather do them on my own terms. Yes, freelancing is insecure but so are staff jobs these days. I don’t think I’ll freelance for the rest of my career but right now it suits me. So, to the people who called me yesterday with offers of work – and you know who you are – I owe you a drink. And Waylon is indebted to you for putting fishy biscuits back on the menu.