The final day

It had finally arrived; the final day. My back was slowly getting more painful by the hour and I was seeing the Chiropractor three times a week plus knocking back so many painkillers I rattled like a bottle. It had got to the stage where I was using three different pharmacies in case the staff thought I was trying to hoard these pills to top myself. I knew I should have gone to the doctors as concerned family, friends and work colleagues kept advising me, but to be truthful I had met various people over the years that had had the same thing bulging out their spine (and pressing painfully against the nerves),and they all ended going under the surgeon’s knife. It wasn’t a case that because I came from a macho environment I was scared at the thought of it, (just a small white lie) it was more a case that I didn’t have much faith in that type of medical procedure. All the people that did go down this route ended up within the year back to square one, and suffering from the same complaint, or they ended in a continuous circle of going under the knife, and each time coming out worst then when they started. No; I was going to try a different route and it didn’t involve hobbling down to the doctor’s surgery.

So there I was, on the train trundling back home. I had managed to introduce the new bloke taking over my job to most of my clients and staff, and sat uncomfortably on my seat pondering the new path my life was ready to take. I felt joyful and free. The pressure of work had slowly crept upon me to the point where I lived in a constant grey cloud and now I felt light, as if a massive weight had been removed from me. I noticed for the first time what a lovely sunny day it was, and just looked out the window at the passing country side, and thought, “isn’t life wonderful.”

I had many unknowns in front of me but I knew I one thing, I wasn’t mad. I hadn’t just had a nervous breakdown and was running away although for a brief moment I thought what a crazy idea it was to try, and become a published author. You see, I don’t come from a creative culture, far from it. I left school with very little meaningful qualifications and had never been through university. In fact no one from my family had been through university; I came from the school of hard knocks and passed through the University of Life with a full honours degree. I had worked hard all my life and taken risks, some paid off and some didn’t, but I had always been in work with all it’ up and downs. I had travelled the world, some of it upper class, to New York, Hong Kong and the Caribbean. I had visited most of Western Europe and parts of Africa and the Middle East. I had what people would call a good life style and I’d given it all up to follow my dream.

I was going to have to start at the bottom like I did when I first left school and try to crawl my way back.

I now had no job, no car and more importantly no laptop. As the train came to a stop at my station, I knew my first task would be before I could even begin the first chapter was to visit the computer store, and purchase myself a note book computer. Actually the first job I did was to limp over to the nearest bar and have a celebration drink, and as one drink lead to another the thought of craziness went the same way as the bear, down the toilet.