DAY ZERO: Pulling one’s finger out of one’s arse

31 Aug

IT’S true, I reinvented the wheel when I quit boozing and carrying on, but this is one of those feats that are only really recognised in the eye of the beholder. And so it was down to me to behold the shit out of it.

For the next year-and-a-half I took to this task, severing myself from impolite society to rattle my chains in the countryside, where I could ponder, sigh and regard myself and my hideous past (of which I was now absolved – hooray!), with the odd foray into bilious contemplation. Eventually, once I had completely lost my sense of humour, my ruminations ran dry.

Around this time, I heard eulogies about a man who had lived life to the full, even in the face of terminal illness, obstinately taking up inventive new pastimes whenever his failing health took old ones away.

I stopped thinking about myself to think about his approach to life. When your eyes are as flat as pennies (I poetised), and your mouth is turned down like a fat girl at a dance, you need what’s colloquially known as a kick up the arse. And here it was. I would start living.

The second this notion occurred to me, I felt better.

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