There comes a point in our lives where we need to rid ourselves of other people’s involvements in our own personal discomforts. No longer do we need, nor require, the help of friends and family to guide us through, and then out of a misguided situation that we had the misfortune of present ourselves with in the first place. If we all had a precognition of the future, a sepulchral path would always be eradicated, and enduringly we would live a harmonious and jovial life. But sadness, joy and horror, are part and parcel in the creative seed of man and woman. We each have two lives; the one we are born into and the one we choose. I chose a life of generosity and kindness, but my thoughtful handouts to the not so affluent and unfortunate over the years, would, one would think, be rewarded. But half a century into a pretty ordinary life has so far failed to honour me with any reasonable accolade.
I have never understood the point in people fighting or arguing. I myself am no pacifist, and will try and talk my way out of any disagreement, or if necessary, fight my way out of a corner if need so, and these are the transient tasks that are bestowed upon us from whom or whatever guides our lives. We are all a metaphorical seed of anger and happiness that is planted here upon this earth, most of the time for nonsensical purposes. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all meander away our lives dolorously in a non belligerent world? But this is not the fictional paradise of Logan’s Run, where people are somnolent in their happiness; this is the reality in the actuality of life.
In 1992 I separated from a girl that I had known before mine and her virginity. The heartbreak for me was so much that I was within a few seconds of fulfilling a premeditated suicide. Only through the intervention from an off duty WPC was an indelicate situation avoided. Today I find my life a lot more happy and bearable. I am indomitable to almost anything that is thrown at me, and I can walk away from trouble post-haste.
An anachronism of the 20th century, I have always drifted to another world where the need for today’s technology is non applicable to the way in which I desire to live out the rest of my life. Build me a shack in the middle of some spacious forest and leave me there to see out the rest of my days, and that is me done. So I suppose it was no surprise when I left a domestic heartache and drifted into a nomadic romany world of living off dregs, loose change and a handful of hopeful pickings. I had no intention on living off the state, nor was I putting myself into the care of the YMCA and the indolent dropout legacy that throng its dormitories looking for a cheap scrounge. Today I am, in theory, a free man. I am hurt, and I am hurt deeply, but this escape from society is the only way that I can think of to cure this broken heart. I have been given another chance to breathe new life; to rid my inertia and get up and go. Today I start a new life - alone again.
I took what money that I would require to pay for my needs. I left with a backpack full with nigh on every miscellaneous survival gear that I could contort into it. I kissed the children, Geoff Junior and Kerry Dee, goodbye. I looked Julie in the eye and silently wished her a shit life.
It was the first saturday of April 1990 - a fool’s day. So with a cantankerous relationship now door-slammed behind me, I sat on the kerbside of a horrid Birmingham Council Estate, waiting for the single decker red bus that will take me into the city. I was also in full view of a twenty month old dishabille little who girl crying behind the front window of what was once my home, wondering when daddy is coming back.
I hadn’t the foggiest idea as to where I was going, as I had no premeditated plan and was indiscriminate on where I would lay my hat for the forthcoming future. All I wanted was to get as far away from this urban hell as this day would allow, and tomorrow, even further. There was no prearranged destination, yet I was strangely looking forward to being on my own, even if it was for only a week or so. But has it turned out, I would be away from home for the remainder of spring, summer, and well into the autumn. So with over £600 on my person that I had hidden in various compounds about me, I was off on a solo mission into the wilderness of rural England.
I took a vacant seat at the rear of the bus and almost pressed my face against the graffiti stained glass and thought pensively on why my life had come to this, and why I had put myself there in the first place. Kerry’s beautiful and tearful pouting face disappeared as the bus left Shannon Road, Hawkesley. There was no going back now, this was really it.
My backpack must have weighed between 35lb to 40lb. I myself am only 140lb, so I will be carting just over a quarter of my bodyweight for the foreseeable future. This is nothing new to me, as I can carry a decent load for any permitted time. This is not my first venture into the wilds, as it was once my favourite pastime, and it looks like those days are about to be revisited.
During the ride into the city I visualised umpteen places that I would like to go. For some reason I wanted to go to where I could reminisce the good old days when I was a child and living with my grandmother. She would always take me away for a fortnight each year to either Scotland, Wales, Cornwall or the East Coast. After discounting the three aforementioned, I opted for the latter of Essex, and in particular, Clacton-on-Sea. Now this may not seem a good idea if your original plans were to rustle up some feathered bedding in the woods, but I wanted to time travel to my infant youth where I could gad about in the arcades and stroll along the pier and prom. Clacton is no haven, in fact it is nondescript and analogous to maybe Margate or Blackpool, but my pertinacious mind had set its sail, and all being well, I would be out of Birmingham and back in the good old days once more.
The National Express Coach Station in Digbeth, which is in the centre of Birmingham, was possibly my best option for cheaper travel. I viewed the timetables to all destinations, and one confirmed that four coaches would stop at Clacton-on-Sea. I wasn't sure how much the fare was to Clacton, but through previous excursions via this station I knew that I would save a good few quid by travelling this way, although it would take up to three hours longer. But I had time to kill; in fact I was to have months to kill, so where was the rush? There was none.
If all goes to plan, I will be boarding the 1.50pm to London, which will make several stops on the way before hopefully pulling into Clacton Bus Station just before 6.00pm - so the timetable tells me. It was just after 12 noon, so I had plenty of time to grab a cup of tea and a sandwich from the cafeteria. The butterflies were fluttering insanely inside my stomach with the excitement of getting away from everything that is malodorous about this city. I looked up at a clock upon the wall which told me that it was 12.20pm. It was time to book my ticket to either paradise or to live the life of a lonely hobo.
The events that occurred during the next five and a half months were not as I had expected them to be; not at all. A new romance, sweltering heat, my inadvertent part in a murder, and a game of cat and mouse with law enforcement, all became, eventually, part of an everyday routine. Rather than a memoir, this book resembles more of a novel, but I assure the reader that the events that occurred during the following months, took place at a period when I had plenty of time.....to kill.