Neil Hawkesford

It had been dark, cold and raining when I’d stepped outside at 5:30 that morning.

It was dark, cold and raining now, 14 hours later.


Ten hours of driving and 4 hours of meetings. Truth be told they hadn’t really been meetings. Rather just opportunities for various people to complain, demand and shout at me.


I fumbled for the key to my rented flat, trying not to drop my takeout chow mein onto the doorstep.


Opening the door, I hit the light switch and dumped the food on the table. 
Grabbing a beer from the fridge, and a fork from the cutlery drawer, I walked into the lounge, pulling the ring tab as I went.


I collapsed on the sofa and slugged a mouthful from the can, eyes closed. My stomach rumbled. That Burger King lunch had been hours ago.


Ripping the lid off the foil container I forked a mouthful of noodles into my mouth and punched the TV remote. 


Adverts, how do they do that? How is it possible to catch the commercial break every fucking time you switch on? 


I switched channels, more ads. Unbelievable.


I kept pushing the button again and again, faster and faster. Channel after channel of shit. Shit, shit and more shit, everything’s shit. 


I hurled the remote across the room. 
It hit the wall, the batteries flew across the floor.


I took another swig of beer and pushed my head back into the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
How did I let this happen to me?


How can I have lost everything again?
Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life?
Is everything I ever do always going to go to shit?
I

t’s all been for nothing.
What’s the point?

The girl on the TV carried on rollerblading, apparently very happy with her sanitary pads.

Maybe I should just end it.

I got up and switched the TV off, then dumped the now cold chow mein in the kitchen bin. I couldn’t be bothered to shower, I was just so damned tired. 
Tears welled up.
I left my clothes on the floor and pulled the duvet over my head.

The year was 2004.

I’d spent 20 odd years chasing the ordinary dream: a good job, a home, a family, a bit of leisure, and the happiness that’s meant to follow.

And I’d succeeded; twice.

As with all I’d ever done, I’d thrown myself into it, working all hours, fully committed, sure of myself.

Now, with two relationships, two homes, and two jobs lying in ruins I was left wondering if I was the problem.

Perhaps I’d been kidding myself. Perhaps I just wasn’t cut out to lead a ‘normal’ life.

The clues were there.

In my youth I’d bought a tired old 18ft sailboat and made her my home.

For two years I lived in an 8ft x 5ft space with a Primus stove for cooking, a chemical toilet, and a single narrow bunk for my sleeping bag.

Crazy enough some might say. But despite only ever having sailed dinghies before, I chose to take her to sea, sailing single-handed down the south coast to Falmouth. By the time I got there I’d pretty much figured it out.

A tiny sailboat was my home, the world was my oyster, and I was the happiest I’d ever been.

But I wanted more.

So I sailed my little boat south, heading for Spain.

It didn’t go well. I nearly lost my life, I lost my boat and I lost my purpose.

That’s when conformity pulled me back in.

And I’d given it a damn good shot hadn’t I? Surely, no one could question that?

Now here I was, 47 years old and right back where I started.

Only two paths lay before me.

One — give up. Call it quits. End it.

Two — accept that conformity wasn’t for me and find a way back to the sea.

Twenty-odd years on, I’m glad I chose the second path.

The man under that duvet couldn’t see what I can see now. What felt like the end of everything was only the end of a plan that was never really mine.