CHAPTER ONE
So... This morning I got up – it’s traditional – went to the park to take Maxwell Wolf out for a walk. Another beautiful day in paradise. What to do? My brain’s a turmoil. I’ve finished the decking so that’s that. I’ve finished the garden lighting so that’s that too. I’ve tidied up and taken all the rubbish to the dump. Done. Re-turfed the lawn. Done. Built a rockery. Done. Solved the problem of where to store the bikes. Done. (Large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall – off the ground, protected from the weather). I’ve done more to the garden, played with more power tools than any middle-aged, middle-class Jewish father of two has any right to do. But now? What to do? (I’ve just heard that Barclays bank is cutting 800 jobs. Another potential avenue of pleasure slams in my face).
I wandered around, making lists in my head (1: Phone the mortgage advisor, 2: Go through the mail, 3: Check out the pond, 4: Phone up the accountant, 5: Press ‘Send/Receive’ on my e-mail - harder to do than you might think. It’s become an increasing confrontational action. There’s either rubbish virus crap “Here’s that document you requested” type stuff has replaced all the “Enlarge your penis/consolidate your debts” stuff or things from either of the two round robin group lists I’m on. Take all that away and it’s down to the odd mail from Gill Wife and she’s downstairs and only writes cos she can’t be bothered to shout. Hardly the stuff this super-highway technology was built for. Kinda like in the old days when the squliions spent on the space programme was justified by the fact that without it we wouldn’t have had the non-stick pan.
So anyway. I was thinking. (Yeah, I know. It was a Christmas present last year. What can you do?) The older we get, the smaller our worlds get. Is it true? I don’t know. I think so. OK. Not 'Is it true?' but more 'It's true for me'. The rare luxury of going to the cinema on my own, a treat that was a staple of my youth but one of those things (like... just about every other selfish pleasure) that had to move out to accommodate life. You'd have thought The Lord would have foreseen such things and made our lives bigger as we went on. You know, you start off with 24 hours for yourself, but then you're expected to take on board a wife, kids, a job, the dogs, the cats, the kids' friends, a mortgage, the garden, a new kitchen, knocking out the back wall and sorting out a conservatory, the "what are we going to do about the school?" question - The Baggage - in that same 24 hours. And it's worse, because when you were younger you had more energy (or at least more drugs that gave you more energy) so your youthful 24 hours lasted longer than your grown up 24 hours. Who would it hurt if we were given, say, an additional three hours a day with each extra child? OK, there’d be a bit of re-structuring to do, but I’d be a fantastic parent, do all sorts of things with the kids. I’d go to that evening life drawing class in Bond Street. I would be that person. I wonder if Brighton Progressive Synagogue's got a Suggestion Box? Maybe one day I'll find out. If I ever go there. If I ever get the time.
I bought myself a bass guitar. It’ll be an interesting experiment to see how much dust can build up on an inanimate object if it’s never moved.
That was a week ago. A week ago and a different lifetime. A week ago I decided to stop all that. I decided to get a life. I got my bicycle down (from the large hooks drilled reasonably high into the wall. Come on, keep up) and after dousing it in extra virgin olive oil – Jane Wife caught me in mid-douse and… what can I tell you? She’s a very understanding woman – I signed up.
On Monday I do T’ai Chi at Planet Janet. On Tuesday I do a creative writing workshop at Evolution. On Wednesday I go to a life drawing class in Bond Street. On Thursday I do my Landmark session in London. On Friday I go to yoga at Jo’s.
I’m getting my body into shape, I’m sorting out my creativity, and I get to doing something I’ve never done before while looking at naked women. No, no. It’s OK. Thanks to my Landmark I can say things like that with integrity and authenticity. My chakras are balanced. I can feel it. Talk about inside smile. I’m so happy, so calm, so… so full of centred creativity I’ve barely got time to swallow the St John’s Wort.
Maxwell Wolf has gone round the family taking odds on how long I’ll stick with each one.
“Hmm, Pilates?” he said with that ‘I found out where you hide the pig’s ears’ smile.
“Ashtanga yoga?”
This is Maxwell my faithful puppy, my support structure, Maxwell Wolf who I rescued from the gutter of life when he still had some discarded Christmas paper stuck to him.
So then this happened. I got an e-mail from an agent. Now I’ve had e-mails from agents before but they’ve all been “House prices in Kemp Town are going up…” which is nice but unless they’re going down everywhere else, what difference? Anyway, this was different. This was from a literary agent. I’ll say that again. Literary agent. Sounds good, no?
Really. It’s a long story but this agent – this literary agent - asked to see some words...
“Have you got any fiction?” he said. “I’m looking for new writers”.
“Course” I said, but really it was like Alex Ferguson asking me if I’ve ever played up front cos Rooney’s injured. “Course”. Fiction? Fiction’s my middle name.
So today I’ve been sitting here trying to make sense of piles of notes, all called things like “Chapter One”.
Yesterday I took Maxwell to the vet to have his anal glands done. That’ll teach him.
