June 1962

Forty nine years and fifty one weeks ago I was delivered by a black midwife at our house on St Nicholas Avenue in Gosport.  My first winter was exceptionally severe and I’ve never liked the cold.  Coincidence?  I think not.

Next week I shall be fifty years old and I still won’t know what I’m going to do with my life.  As I shuffle relentlessly towards oblivion, losing yet more hair, I spend more time wondering what is the point of my life.  I’m often drawn to that beautiful, yet morbid track by The Flaming Lips:

(I’ve not seen the video before and am rather heartened by its simplicity and beauty, not to mention the fact that there is a distinct paucity of one second jump cuts so often found in pop music videos.)  The point is that I still find it hard to reconcile Coyne’s lyric “Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?” with the joy of seeing my son Christopher growing each day.  One day he will die.  That thought never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

So, what is the point?

Five years on and I’m still asking the same question.

Stay tuned.  I think I’ll resume activity.  I have news to tell.

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