The Wheezy Life That Came Before

The copper sunset I shall peak out from beneath in the entirity of this blog.

The copper sunset I shall peak out from beneath in the entirity of this blog.

Welcome to the new musings. It has given me great trouble working out how to start my new outpouring of wordy filth (and delight, oh the delight) into the world. Where would I start on a blog whose name was almost “It’s been so long but thanks for all the pish.” A response to the slices of unfortunate circumstance that have come before. There are of course certain standards to maintain, mentions to be made and friends to be ridiculed. But then I thought people might expect that, and nobody likes a plot that is expected, so instead I’d perhaps start with a thank you.

Thanks then for the friends and family who helped out at a difficult time. It was more difficult for them no doubt because my normally rosy demeanour is not so easily appreciated when smothered beneath a level of medication that in race horses is one step down from being sent to be made into sausages.

Sizing me up for a possible refund and replace.

Sizing me up for a possible refund and replace.

On the off chance there was any money in that my parents did size me up for a box as you can see, but thankfully it didn’t come to that. I’m pretty sure if I was a sausage though, I’d be bloody delicious. They may however have laws against sausages that for all intents and purposes have had TB twice. Sausages aside, thank you to those friends who have provided succour from the storm in a challenging two years.

Thanks especially to my brother and parents, the latter for putting up with me taking over their house (and thankfully their kitchen!) for three months when full of lazy medicated frowns.  A special note to Dave Smith who provided me an escape, and my parents a relief, from the times spent growing old and bored in Cumbria. Thanks to my brother who for the purpose of this blog I shall often refer to as “The Patron,” seeing as if we were living a hundred years ago that’s almost certainly how he’d be described. He provides, amongst other things, the means for me to write without being evicted. Having recently read George Orwell’s Down and Out in London and Paris I’m convinced I’m not set up for the life of an itinerant tramp. Itinerant yes, but tramp, no; International Misadventurer is perhaps a more exciting title. Oh wait, I think I already did that one.

Given this blog is aimed at explaining a life of words and coffee it is perhaps pertinent to thank Annabel, my lovely girlfriend, for often providing me with the latter and more often correcting the former. She has also been a great support and a great motivator.  It is with devilish wit I wield my pen (keyboard) but it is with, it seems, demonic glee, that she wields her own red pen to show me all that is wrong. All that is wrong is many things, not limited to rogue apostrophes that sneak from their home to find residence elsewhere and stray capitals that peek out knowingly from strange areas of a paragraph. All that is wrong is something she’s glad to point out, and I thank her for that too, although perhaps it could be done without the knowing smile and contempt for my inability to learn.

Finally my thanks to all of the legion of medical professionals thrown into the breach that is my ill health, particularly and most recently the Cystic Fibrosis team from the Western General in Edinburgh.  I’ve been treated with constumate professionalism and good humour the entire way through my medicated meanderings.  I shall return such good grace by hitting the gym and becoming really vain so it looks like they fixed up a finely toned vintage car rather than the ageing Porsche with a bad engine I actually may be.

The first drink I was allowed in 18 months on the day I finished the first draft of my first novel.  Well timed.

The first drink I was allowed in 18 months on the day I finished the first draft of my first novel. Well timed.

Here I am now then. Gone the man in the box ready to be shipped off. Gone are the heavily medicated months, slowed to a tiny trickle of anti-biotics to keep the bad things at bay. So far they haven’t stopped the council tax bill coming through. But hey, trams. Now I wear a mighty crown made of paper and drink prosecco from a flute of triumph, albeit rarely. Here in fact is the new me, flush with victory at having just completed the first draft of my new book, tentatively entitlted ‘Broken Sunshine’, which ultimately I hope I can post on here as being published one day. In the mean time I have this Wheezy blog of words and coffee to give me another outlet to write, and more importantly an audience to listen.  Oh the poor fools.

I have linked the work which I’ve already completed and had published. I’m proud of every piece, having taken up writing as a means of being productive at a time when I was otherwise quite limited in my adventures. I’m proud also for all the help I’ve received, and very grateful for the time and input of all those who have given me feedback on my writing. Thanks especially to Viccy Adams whose work you can find here.  She has provided me criticism and encouragement in not quite equal measure. I leave it to you to decide which has come in greater share, either way she’s been a fantastic help.

Here’s a new adventure though, one with words, and hopefully a large amount of coffee. I hope people enjoy my sharing it with them. The adventure that is, you’re not getting any of my fucking coffee.

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Posted in Writing
One comment on “The Wheezy Life That Came Before
  1. Dan Turner says:

    Just call me The Patron…like it 🙂

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