It’s early March 1994, one of those early Spring days that make you think the dark days of Winter might finally be coming to an end. I am walking along the quiet lanes of Farnham, hands stuffed in my pockets, collar up and shoulders hunched against the chilly breeze. But the milky sun is doing it’s level best to claw it’s way through the clouds, and I can feel it’s warmth, fleetingly on my face.
I’ve been out of hospital for six weeks and, at 37 years old, I’m back living with my Mum. Her lovely cottage, that we helped her find when the family home got too much, after Dad died and, one by one, after we’d all moved out, is just about big enough for the two of us. I haven’t got much stuff anyway. Two bin bags of clothes and my records. Not much to show for 15 years of married life.
I pull at my collar as the breeze picks up. I am the thinnest I’ve been for years, and will ever be again. I’ve only started eating again in the last few days, the homemade Cottage Pie replacing the endless tins of Heinz Tomato soup. » Continue Reading.