Tuesday, August 21, 2012


Back on July 15 2010, I embarked upon what I expect to be the last entrepreneurial activity of my life. If that sounds melodramatic, it is not meant to be. I’m not planning – as far as I know (the subconscious is tricky) -to commit suicide. It was merely that at the age of 66 (and I am two years older now) I thought it unlikely I would risk all again after my proposed venture. Risk is normally the perquisite of the young and the middle-aged.

Besides, it seemed probable that what I had in mind would – and will -take the rest of my life. Book-writing is extraordinarily satisfying, but its fiercest proponent would never describe it as speedy. It is more akin to long, slow sex where one hovers just on the edge of orgasm – but holds back because the marginally lesser satisfaction is so pleasurable, that the short-lived ecstasy of release becomes an option best delayed. Similarly, after one completes a draft – the climax, if you will - a depressive reaction  (post book-writing tristesse) - is not uncommon. The struggle – the fascinating, maddening, frustrating, mentally exhausting, totally compelling process of trying to translate one’s thoughts into written words – is The Thing.

Initially, I had some hopes of trading as soon as Christmas 2010, but the gods laughed at me. I became involved in helping to care for Jo in October 2010, in watching her die in December, and in tidying up after in early 2011, and then I was unpleasantly ill with a virus in March 2011 and didn’t really get even part of my strength back until April 2011. It’s disconcerting to feel so weak for so long. Subconsciously, I suspect I still hold to the schoolboy notion that an ailment should last no longer than two to three weeks: Measles; Chickenpox; Whooping Cough; Flu: Those were simpler days. But I became 67 on May 23 2011 and nature has its own agenda. I recovered, but at a pace commensurate with my years,

To be continued…







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