Long and bloody winding road
Too much to ask for, somehow? What was he thinking, giving his all for a chance to live a few more years in relative comfort? And I love this one, ‘It’s far too expensive for you, too large anyway.’
Suppose following that logic, the minute I was diagnosed – five years ago – I should have crumbled and turned myself into the cookie-cutter image of the sorry little shuffling old man, on an old man’s little pension, content to live a little in a little social housing flat.
Perhaps I would have had at least some say in which colour PJs or which kind of slippers I wanted to be decked out into for a morning’s window peering into nothingness.
To Hell with that. But then, there will always be repercussions for those not content to fit any old mould any old time.
And onwards and downwards we go..
Still, it would have been nice. I had so many plans for that perfect little slice of paradise. Sound, solid plans too, I might add.
But alas, it wasn’t to be. Never even got to fill up that lovely great walled bookcase. I’d always dreamt of one day perhaps living somewhere where I would have one of those white book cases covering part or even all of a wall.
I used to admire the sight of those huge book-wall-cases so much when I noticed how smart they appeared to me, denoting something of a haven, an oasis for the oddball within.
I remember almost always seeing these bookcases when visiting a wealthy left-wing thinker who usually didn’t even think twice about it. Just a few books right?
Never one to feel entitled to anything at all on this mortal coil, it conveyed such comfort and sanctuary to one such as me..
And then there was my ‘office’ or ‘study’ or dare I say it, ‘den’ ..
Well, at least that last story written before my voluntary gardening leave was written there, finally having come around to installing my cherished Big Mac.
‘I’ll see you in five years’ – ‘It’s only six months’
Time flies when you’re surviving day by day, hour by hour.