Day one, nestled inconspicuously between day zero and day two, nothing to differentiate it from any other save the fact that someone bothered to push a flag into the earth there, like a comedy cocktail stick in a dog turd, and declare it a place from which to start. Fifty years through a life in a cold, grey England, sluggish traffic dragging itself up the hill along the road on the other side of the rattling glass, breakfast done, coffee done, meds done, nothing left but the endless hungry yawn of the reformed smoker’s restless hours, no more little treats or rewards, no little soothers, no little encouragements to struggle through til lights out.
I came to attention at six, shrugged into clothes dead and mangled where they fell in front of the TV last night and dragged my rubbish round to the front of the front of the house. Came back in, enthusiasm and motivation already leaking through the fissures in my egg timer soul. Burned and ate bacon. This is day one, I told myself, the day on which I start again, the day on which I jettison those destructive, self defeating habits and stride confidently forward to a short but gleaming life of purpose and success, snatching a late but dazzling victory from the gummy jaws of defeat, still gnashing toothlessly after five decades. But first, a little sit down. First, the same everyday distractions, a child sitting playing in his own faeces while the house burns down. Day one again.