Tattoos of Memories

Time served readers of this blog will remember the en masse cull that I performed 18 months ago when three years worth of blog posts got flushed down the loo like a junky's wrap when the Old Bill come knocking.

Well, I was at work today trawling through my sent emails looking for something regarding an attendance at the Annual Service of Remembrance in Battersea Park. While hundreds gather at the Cenotaph in November a rapidly depleting group of former servicemen and women gather around the plinth in the Park to remember the residents of SW11 who paid the ultimate sacrifice. I like to ensure that the local fire station recognises the debt we owe them and its personnel appear alongside those on parade. Anyway, in searching for that email I discovered a number of saved blog posts from the 'lost' series.

As I read through them memories came flooding back and I've decided to post one here to show how you never know how something might occur to mess up your life plans.

Check it out:

The lyrics to Green Day’s excellent song, Good Riddance go:

‘Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road.

Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go.

So make the best of this test, and don't ask why.

It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time…’

And so it feels that I’m rapidly approaching one of those forks stuck in the road. 

More of that in a while.

As I look back at the past four years, since I separated from ex-wife/partner (no.3), I see a directionless period of time marked by chaos and self destruction. When the time comes for my eulogy to be written, the period 2007-2011 will be known as ‘The Wilderness Years.’ Either that or ‘The Four Year Period When a Man With a Successful Career in the Fire Service Became Famous For Being a Pirate Whilst Simultaneously Having a Fuckin’ Good Go at Draining the European Union’s Wine Lake.’  

In searching for metaphors for my life I’m required to look no further than my wildly overgrown garden and my long undecorated house. But do you know what? I could live with the slowly deteriorating décor, the flaking paint and peeling wallpaper, because I knew it was easily within my grasp to turn that around.

But the garden?

My fingers are the colour of London Stock Brick rather than Monty Don green. In fact I kept my sitting room curtains closed so I didn’t have to witness the bio-diverse ecosystem that was developing outside my widow. It got so bad that I was even too embarrassed to employ a gardener to tackle it (not to mention the extortionate sum it would cost to level what was essentially a forest).

Then last week Mrs Mac arrives on a short trip south and in a matter of hours the garden is (partially) transformed.

And right there is the fork stuck in the road.

Not the dawning realisation that my life is destined to be one dominated by weekend jaunts to the garden centre and Gardener’s Question Time…..I mean, get real.

No, I’m talking about the one-time running club president and soon to be unemployed Mrs Mac.

For she learned recently that her employment is about to become a victim of the coalition’s cuts, which for her, became her own turning point in the road. It motivated her to make the decision that employment opportunities are greater in the beautiful south plus there’s a deteriorating garden, surrounding a deteriorating house, that contains a deteriorating man, that needs rescuing.

Yep, me and Mrs Mac are about to move in together.

By way of justifying the title of my blog and its raison d’etre, I wonder what this will mean for my running.

Well, one of two things I guess.

1. I’ll find a level of contentment that has been missing for four years and will benefit physically, psychologically and morally and will become an absolute success as a runner.
2. I’ll settle in to a life of domestic normality and will become fat, slow and join the Neighbourhood Watch and run absolutely no where.

Whichever one holds true the tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial will be recorded within this blog.

Of course there could be a third option I’ve not explored………………

3. Mrs Mac may succumb to my unorthodox style of living, leave the secateurs to rust, and develop a taste for very strong wine and kebabs.

Laters.