Not literature. Not poetry. No claims to artistic merit. Not anything. Just a jumble of words that came out, possibly attempting to communicate something or another. That's all. 

1.

Fifty five. We thought we would always be fifty five.

A camp by the loch. Silent, aside from the rustle of plastic in the breeze, my roof for the night.

Five o'clock, daybreak. Two young deer peer, inquisitive. Shafts of sunlight stream in over clouds at the head of the glen. No sound, save the rustle of plastic as I fold its dewy dampness and squeeze it into my backpack.

Seven o'clock, and I am off. The direct route up the hill, the painful way. Thick grassy tussocks and a criss-cross of rivulets mark the hillside.

I stop in the steepness - it is a shock to the system so early in the day. The direct assault, and I vow that I cannot continue. But I will. Five minutes on, energy to spare, I take it up again. The summit will be gained, and the day is still young.

2. 

Tonight, the diary dares to tell me that I am seventy one.

I glance at the mantelpiece. The clock says eight. How many hours have passed already in blackness? I put out the milk bottles, a throwback. The rain is incessant. 

Tonight, maybe, the blackness will continue forever. It is an eternity, this Highland blackness. And it is exceeding hard not to fight against it. 

Blackness: no quality, no distinctions, no time. It has always been so, always will be. 

Yes, tonight, maybe we can embrace the blackness. No fear, no resistance; just swim in the void of the dark. Renounce all else, and float, glide, swim. Such is liberation; but who dares?

The blackness has been at my side, at my shoulder, since the beginning. My mother in hospital, witnessing the parade of bonnie little babies, and then confronted with a tiny, crinkle-dry, entity, shocking and crying. Is it human? Can she bear to look? "This is yours" the nurse says.

And so we take shape, form, personality. We wander the face of the Earth unique, isolate. But what illusion! We are the dark, the infinite black, the unspeakable void. The bliss of freedom, if only we had the courage to renounce and to accept. As it is, it seems to be the greatest nightmare.....

3.

Two weeks ago, the sofa. I sat here. Before me the rug and the coffee table, low-slung and circular as coffee tables are. Atop the table, the bowl of olives. Black and green, the latter especially plump. juicy, succulent, refreshing. And I in need.....

Tantalus. Out of reach. Just. The centre of the table. Olives, out of reach. Sciatic nerve, no way to move without pain, sharp, stabbing, or like an electric shock. Is it worth it? 

So I sit there. Sit and look. Look at the olives, soft refreshment for my aching soul, my aching body. 

Finally, after many minutes, I make a move. Just a small and subtle move, but enough to elicit a yelp, a cry of pain. The olives are good, very good. They stay close.

4.

Fifty five. The work. The drudge, the drear, the tedium of days stretched to dull infinity. The long trudge home of an evening, spirit bowed and beaten but not broken. Too worn down to notice the loveliness of the river as I pass by on my way home.

To begin with I was very naive. I had never worked in the corporate world before. It took a while to realise that Head Office was not primarily concerned with maximising income and profit. Its priority was control, and standardisation across the board. No matter where the shop, be it the Scottish Highlands, Covent Garden, the Norfolk flatlands; it would all be the same. Same look, same rules, same behaviour. We were the minimum wage dudes, some of us working hard some of the time. Scant praise or reward for our endeavours or our great successes. But a bad week and the ruler would be out to rap the knuckles, and order us to shape up. What were we supposed to do? Pin customers to the wall, and threaten them with violence if they didn't buy the most expensive ski-jacket?

Local management, regional management, area management: none had any training in staff training from what I could see. How to deal with people. Basic psychology. How to encourage and get the best out of people. Just stick and carrot without the vegetable.

Fifty five. Home at last. The evening-time, the thirst for life slaked. Merlot, Cabernet, maybe a decent Pinot Noir. One glass, two glasses, make it three. The black grape, the sacred vine, the sinus-dessicating saviour of the day.

And then the retail trade caught me. I got ill. Very ill. Ten years to the day. I thought I might not survive. No more retail world for you: this was the message. It's another trip now. Now it's come around full circle, another illness. Out of action for weeks. It might be a while yet. But I don't think the sciatica and the accompanying illness is going to kill me. I might be wrong....

Two years in and the Merlot started to make me feel ill. It's just that my energy didn't like it any longer. Even a glass and I'd feel drained, depleted, finished. I haven't touched a drop for seven years.