Change:

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

-AA Milne

Retox.  Detox.  Repeat ad infinitum. 

So, I came through the festive season relatively unscathed.  I had the proverbial ‘good Christmas’, which Scouse readers will know is a euphemism for ‘you fat bastard’.  It had gotten to the point where if I had one more Celebration, I could have joined Kool And The Gang.  My mental health, after several counselling sessions was slowly improving.  The physical health was not being dragged along in its slipstream.

Therefore, something had to give.  I saw a picture of myself, on that great leveller Facebook.  I’m playing video games with my stepson.  I’m wearing an Arran sweater, and I look like a fat fisherman, mystified by this little box of delights.  I therefore decided that, something had to give. 

The mental health is slowly recovering.  And sometimes, this new sense of clarity is a struggle.  Sometimes, it’s easy.  I’m starting each day with stretching and breathing exercises. It makes my mind settle; birdlike in the tree of my soul.  I also do this before I start writing.  I’ve always seen this as a ritualistic process, maybe this is another iteration of the same thing, but it seems to get results.  I recognise an honesty in my writing, that I didn’t have five years ago.

I’m still walking, but going in a different direction.  Rather than downhill, towards the lurid lights and fleshpots of what most people call ‘the garage’.  But uphill, with the sheep and cattle wondering who the Scouser in the Star Wars hat and Liverpool FC gloves is.  The farm animals are the only thing out there; the valley dips and settles itself into the land.  The walks are longer, quieter, more reflective.  Occasionally, I stop to let the hourly bus pass me by.  More often, I pull myself into the bushes; as someone flies past – driving like Ed Sheeran, ninety miles an hour down country lanes.

 

I’ll stop at the signpost that points back to the village; or to the nearest market town of Tiverton.  It all helps with the weight loss, let alone the mental de-cluttering.

As readers will now, I am a stepfather to a ten year old boy.  Who never stops talking, never stops moving, never stops eating.  I have to take him to play football once a week, running around the long grass and pot holes, of what is laughably called ‘ the village park’ is much easier.  I’m still, eagerly awaiting the call from Jürgen Klopp, telling me that Mo Salah is injured.  Can I get up to Liverpool this afternoon? 

Boom. 

My boy is also growing up to be a thrillseeker.  He went zip wiring a few months ago and Papa had to come with him.  Now, that I am much lighter I am genuinely looking forward to the experience.  He’s also planning our trip to the one at The Eden Project, where you fly across the bio domes.  As he gets older, I have a feeling he’s going to be an extreme sports nutter, throwing himself out of planes listening to Soundgarden.  Maybe, I’ll join him.  Maybe, I’ll join him. 

I’ve fallen in love with books again.  I’m actually greedy for them, fascinated by them, spending in general a fortnight over them, dealing with deep, crisp, even prose. And then I want the next one.  I recently finished (and heartily recommend) Anthony Beevor’s book on Arnhem.  I’m going to start Detroit ‘67 by Stuart Cosgrove next, which looks an equally weighty, well-researched, luxuriant read.

That’s not to say, I’m going to read everything or experience everything to feel something.  I’ve taken a load of books and DVD’s to the charity shop.  It was a detox of negativity, the darkest books imaginable; the most harrowing films I had.    I don’t need to watch It’s A Wonderful Life for the umpteenth time, to make myself feel better.  I also did a digital detox, deleting the last four episodes of S2 of The Handmaid’s Tale I hadn’t seen from the TV box.  I recognise its craft, but at the same time what is going on is much darker, much more relevant, and more important.

If you look at this way: I live in a country, where my leader is an opportunist.  Her Plan A was shite; Plan B was an even shittier version of Plan A.  I’m seeing more RAF plans flying low, presumably practising for food drops.  Over in America, we have a toddler in fake tan, who has unleashed several kinds of hatred upon the world.  What’s going on in Gilead is a little less important. 

So, it’s a symbiotic process, making the mind and body a little better.  It’s the same process everyone goes through, at this time of the year.  Everyone in the universe, even those in distant, alien civilisations, light years away; wakes up on New Year’s Day and goes ‘What the fuck?’ I’m not a lifestyle guru.  I’m not Marie Kordo, who recently advocated getting rid of books that you’ve read.  In a book.  I’m not saying follow me.  I’m suspicious of people who need followers.  I’m just saying, in the words of a great Indian philosopher: ‘Is this the real life?  Is this just fantasy?’  If you want 2019, to be a year in which you make changes, change the world, change a habit… anything is possible.