As we arrive at each succeeding Saturday Graham ticks off another load of grockles on his programme. The remaining grockle weeks left to do is down in single digits, then there’s a couple of specials, finishing with the autumn transvestites. And then… home!
I’m reminded of the ‘demob chart’ I kept when I was in the RAF. At first, with over two years on it, the number of days seemed daunting. Then, near the finish, it all swept past me too fast, too cruel, and when the day arrived for me to hitch my kitbag over my shoulder and walk through the camp gates for the last time, I nearly chickened out and signed on for another term. Thankfully, I had better sense when it came to it. Formative it may have been, but I was not suited to the military life.
My return to London put a neat line under my military service when the train crashed into the buffers. Not too dramatic a crash, but enough to stun the driver, and to result in a few bumps and bruises among the passengers. Not me, though, so I grabbed my bag and strode off into the Underground unscathed and filled with determination, ready to tackle and to enjoy the rest of my life.
It has been something of a bumpy ride. More ups than downs, though, and I arrive only a few days away from my ‘allotted span’ of three-score years and ten, ready to tackle and to enjoy the rest of my life. I shall make 100 if it kills me.
