fruitunderatree

When I popped out a Lancashire lad little did I know that I was in for a surpise. I wouldn't be staying in North England long and would be spending my life living in Nigeria, then boarding school, then Malawi, then Cambridge University, then Kent, kenya, Bath and Argentina. The final chapter has been in Cambridge here.

Along the way I have been (not necessarily in the right order), waiter, advertiser, painter, painter and decorator, punting on the River in Cambridge, poet, teacher of Social Sciences, door-to-door sales man for a satellite TV company, journalist, enviornmentalist campaigner, film-script writer, landlord. I cannot say I have been good in allo f them?

A few years ago I took a day off from work. I was tired, disilluioned, maybe paranoid. A daily grind of 80 minutes commuting and working in a high-pressure stress environment had left me in a blurr. I met my long-time friend. A man who for all his adult life had been unable to progress from mental-health service user to job, to relationship. Probably the sweetest man the world. He led me by the hand to the river stopping only to buy some damaged fruit from a stall. As we sat under the tree  eating that sweet fruit I knew I had lost something about time, the use of time, tranquility, being able to watch, de-acceleration.

It is because of this I call myself fruitunderatree. You might think I am bananas.