“Stop Whining—Get On With It”
“Good heavens, Penny, this is getting ridiculous!” came the booming voice from the hallway. “Are you crying again? I can hear you through the wall! What is it this time?”
Penny wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dressing gown and reluctantly opened the door. There stood Mrs. Winthrop, clutching a paper bag of scones.
“It’s the same old story, Mrs. Winthrop… the boss at work again…” Penny began, but the neighbour marched straight past her into the flat.
“Enough of this snivelling, girl!” Mrs. Winthrop declared, setting the bag on the table. “How old are you? Forty-two? Carrying on like a schoolgirl! Sit down, we’ll have tea and talk like sensible people.”
Penny shuffled obediently into the kitchen. Despite being seventy-five, Mrs. Winthrop was livelier than most women half her age—sharp-eyed, straight-backed, with no patience for moaning or self-pity.
“Out with it, then,” she ordered, flicking on the kettle. “And spare me the waterworks—stick to the facts.”
Penny slumped onto a stool. “The director said I might be let go. They’re cutting costs, and since I’ve only been working as an accountant for two years, I’ll be the first to go.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Mrs. Winthrop asked, pulling cups from the cupboard.
“What can I do? Just waiting to be sacked. I’ve updated my CV, but who’d hire someone my age? Plenty of younger ones about, and I don’t even have much experience…”
“Hold on!” Mrs. Winthrop spun round sharply. “That’s your problem right there! You give up before you’ve even tried! Do you think your boss enjoys laying people off?”
“But what can I—”
“You can do plenty!” the older woman cut in. “How long have I known you? You’re bright, meticulous, responsible. I remember how you cared for your mother right till the end—never a word of complaint. And now you’re falling apart over a job?”
Penny opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Winthrop was already pouring the tea.
“Listen here,” she said, sitting opposite. “My late husband, God rest him, worked at the factory for thirty years. When it closed, he was fifty-eight. Thought his life was over, that no one would hire an old codger. And I told him—stop moaning and do something! And what do you know? He took up odd jobs as a handyman, then opened his own little repair shop. Worked right till retirement, fixing things for folk.”
“But he was a man,” Penny sighed. “And I—”
“And you’re what?” Mrs. Winthrop snapped. “Have you got hands? A brain in your head? Then why are you acting like a wet blanket?”
Penny fell silent, stirring her tea absently. She knew Mrs. Winthrop was right. But how could she explain the fear, the paralysing doubt that crept in whenever she had to act on her own?
“Mrs. Winthrop… were you ever scared?” she asked quietly.
“Terrified!” the old woman laughed. “Who isn’t? When I waved my husband off to war, I thought fear would drive me mad. Scared stiff when I had my babies too. But fear’s normal—just don’t let it steer your life.”
Penny shook her head. “I don’t know… I feel like all I’m good for is pushing papers.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Winthrop waved a hand. “Remember when you set up my computer? Or helped Mrs. Abbott from number five sort her taxes? And how many times did you explain contracts to me when I sold the cottage?”
Penny paused. It was true—neighbours often asked her for help with forms, bills, official rigmarole. They thanked her, praised her…
“But that’s not a proper job,” she mumbled.
“Why not?” Mrs. Winthrop scoffed. “People need help, and you’ve got the knack. So make a business of it!”
“A business?” Penny gaped. “Mrs. Winthrop, I’m no entrepreneur!”
“And who is, at first?” The old woman smirked. “Think they’re born with it? My niece Gemma was a receptionist—now she runs a beauty salon. Started cutting hair in her kitchen, now she’s got three stylists working for her.”
“But that’s different—”
“No different at all!” Mrs. Winthrop cut in. “Same principle: see a need, fill it. You know how folks struggle with paperwork, taxes, forms—all that red tape. You could help.”
Penny chewed her lip. It was true—how often had she heard neighbours grumble about bureaucracy?
“But where would I start?” she asked hesitantly. “Licenses, permits…”
“Start small!” Mrs. Winthrop barked. “Put a notice in the lobby: ‘Help with paperwork, taxes, bookkeeping. Affordable, home service.’ You’ll have clients in no time.”
Penny hesitated. “And if I don’t?”
“And if you do?” the older woman shot back. “You always expect the worst! That’s no way to live. You’ve got to think positive.”
Penny nodded, but doubt still shadowed her eyes.
“Listen, love,” Mrs. Winthrop softened. “I get it—you’ve been lost since your mum passed. But life goes on. She wouldn’t want you like this.”
At the mention of her mother, Penny’s throat tightened. Mrs. Winthrop was right—after Mum’s death, she’d shrunk into herself. Mum had always been her anchor, her cheerleader. Now…
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Mrs. Winthrop said firmly. “Tomorrow, you’ll march into your boss’s office and offer him a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Tell him: let me work remotely. I’ll handle the accounts from home—you’ll pay me less, but save on office costs. Everyone wins.”
“But he wants to cut expenses—”
“Exactly!” Mrs. Winthrop tapped the table. “You’ll cost him less, and your work won’t suffer. If anything, you’ll focus better without office chatter.”
The idea caught Penny off guard—but what if it worked?
“What if he says no?”
“Then he says no! At least you’ll have tried. Right now, you’re just sitting there waiting for the axe. That’s no solution!”
Mrs. Winthrop stood and walked to the window.
“I’ve seen all sorts in my time. Some spend their lives whinging about bad luck. Others roll up their sleeves and get on with it. And guess who comes out on top?”
Penny sighed. “I suppose they’re just… braver.”
“Bravery’s a habit!” Mrs. Winthrop turned sharply. “Start acting—your courage will grow. Keep moping—you’ll stay a spineless wonder.”
The words stung. Spineless… Was that really her?
“Mrs. Winthrop… how did you get so… fearless?”
“I had no choice,” the old woman chuckled grimly. “War, rationing, rubble everywhere. Sit around waiting—you starve. Had to hustle. I was eighteen when my dad was killed at the front. Just me, my mum, and two little sisters. Mum took ill, bedridden for years. So I stepped up.”
“How did you manage?”
“However I could. Factory work, allotment, keeping chickens. No time for tears. Built a backbone out of necessity. My husband used to say I could stare down a bulldozer.”
Penny pictured Mrs. Winthrop as a girl—shouldering burdens that would buckle most adults—then thought of herself, trembling at the thought of talking to her boss.
“Mrs. Winthrop… will you help me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
“Course I will!” The old woman grinned. “Not with coddling—with action. Tomorrow, you’ll face your boss, and we’ll rehearse your pitch proper.”
That night, Penny lay awake, Mrs. Winthrop’s voice ringing in her head: Stop whining—get on with it. What was the worst that could happen? A ‘no’ wouldn’t kill her.
By morning, the fear hadn’t vanished—but something new flickered beneath it. Anticipation. Curiosity.
At lunch, she knocked on the director’s door. Mr. Whitmore looked up from his papers, surprised.
“Penny? Is everything alright?”
“Mr. Whitmore, I’d like to discuss… the redundancy,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
“Ah. Unpleasant business, but needs must—”
“I’d like to propose an alternative,” she cut in. “Let me work remotely. You’ll pay me less, save on overheads, and I’ll deliver the same output.”
Mr. Whitmore blinked. “Interesting. How would that work?”
Penny took a breath and laid out the plan she and Mrs. Winthrop had devised—digital workflows, phone consultations, flexible hours.
“You know what,” he”Two years later, Penny’s kitchen-table bookkeeping service had grown into a bustling consultancy, and every time she passed the old office building, she smiled at the faded ‘Stop Whining—Get On With It’ sticky note still stuck to her desk drawer.”
