The Malcontent
On balance, the two-year adventure that we embarked on in November 1993 was worthwhile, I suppose.
At the time, my family and I were living in a five bedroom detached house in the English Midlands. With its integral garage, utility room, two bathrooms and fitted kitchen, many would have said that we were comfortably off. Two Volvo estates graced our driveway; we employed two part-time housekeepers to perform our domestic chores, and took holidays in the sun most years. We were a middle class, middle income family: dad with the main job, mum in support and two healthy happy children at school. Being concordant, conservative and conventional, we epitomised ‘Middle England’.
Perhaps our sense of comfort and our long-standing love of Mediterranean sunshine were to blame for putting all this at risk that autumn. Certainly, with each successive winter, I’d endured ever-deeper bouts of gloom. Although never formally diagnosed, I believe that I’d been suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) for many years.
To combat my melancholy, I’d get up early most November mornings to spit-roast myself in front of the sun lamp that we’d bought just after our marriage. Within minutes of basking in the infra red and ultra violet rays, I’d experience an overwhelming rush of well being. It was like the euphoric feeling of sliding into a tub of hot water after a heavy day at work. As I stood inelegantly, absorbing the radiation and listening to the tick of an oven-timer that I used to measure my exposure, my mind would wander. With red plastic goggles gouging ugly rings around my eyes, I’d conjure up images of sun-drenched beaches and lazy summer afternoons sipping long cool drinks.
Being in the ‘tele-worker’ vanguard, I had significant control over my working day. So, at lunchtime, long after my family had gone in their various directions, I’d visit my local gymnasium for an hour. By exercising myself to exhaustion, I’d often experience the same uplift that the sun lamp had given me earlier. Yes, I was a real ‘sun and gym junkie’ in those days.
Evidence that I suffered from SAD came from other sources too. For instance, I’d find my gloom lifting as the first days of Spring arrived. The weak warmth of early April sunshine, and the sight of daffodils coming into bloom, would send huge feelings of optimism and relief surging around my body. Summer was on its way and I would soon feel good about myself again. In my youth, I used to run up and down rugby pitches towing lorry tyres behind me, to build up the strength and stamina I needed as a second row forward. The arrival of Spring later in my life was akin to cutting the rope between the tyre and me. Released and free, I’d feel ready to tackle anything.
Conversely, I’d experience a sense of anti climax, doom and despondency as Mid-Summer’s Day approached. Unnoticed by most it seemed, the solstice signalled to me an end to ever-increasing amounts of daylight. Strangely though, with the passing of June, I’d enjoy most of July and August. Perhaps by then I’d accepted the inevitable onset of winter and resolved to make the most of what remained of the Northern Hemisphere’s warmth and light.
My temporary reprieve would have evaporated by September though. As my favourite rugby team played its first few matches of the season, its brightly coloured shirts would herald the return of winter to me. The still warm sun, low on the horizon during afternoon matches, would cause long shadows that followed the players about, like ghosts of the winter months that would soon haunt me.
Once Bonfire Night had whizzed and crackled its way into history, my post-autumnal pessimism would have set in for the duration. In retrospect therefore, England's incessant greyness around 5 November 1993 was undoubtedly a spur to the many gambles that followed shortly thereafter. It contributed greatly to my sense of restlessness.
I’m sure other factors played their part too in what friends came to see as a lemming-like urge to commit occupational and social suicide. One such factor might have been my urge to move on in my life every three years or so, something that I attributed partly to my service in the British Forces, and their typical ‘tour’ lengths. In brief, I'd served as an army reservist between 1975 and 1980, before transferring to the Royal Air Force with a permanent commission.
Finally leaving uniformed service in 1986, I’d moved into industry and, since 1990, I’d been working for a video company in the north of England as a consultant scriptwriter. Consequently, my challenges at work were quite glamorous and stimulating compared to most people’s, and sixty-hour working weeks always flew past. In fact, I found my work so exciting that I’d often wake in the middle of the night to scribble down ideas, just in case they’d gone by the morning, such was my love of labour at the time.
When I look back now, and view my job in the context of Britain’s economic recession, I realise just how well off I was. Like my teacher wife, I enjoyed creative freedom and professional fulfilment. Both of our jobs were secure and we’d accumulated a reasonable amount of material wealth.
However, we did pay for the honour, dignity and privilege of work; sometimes dearly. My job was laden with stress: mainly because of the significant amounts of travel and congested roads normally associated with my ‘days at the office’. Between Monday and Wednesday most weeks, I'd telework from home in sublime tranquillity, with my sun lamp and the gym to fill any spare moments. Then, at five o’clock most Thursday mornings, I'd travel two hundred and sixty miles north through traffic jams, road works, foul weather and dubious driving, for a couple of days’ office work in England’s Lake District.
The outbound trips weren’t so bad. At least I’d be heading into the emptier roads of northern England and the dawn would overtake me. Once the Manchester Ship Canal was passed, the cut-and-thrust of driving through Cheshire would give way to the relative peacefulness of Lancashire’s roads. Crossing the border between these counties was like stepping through a time portal sometimes. From modern Britain, to a Britain of yesteryear, when driving was still a pleasure.
I always liked driving through Cumbria, the county beyond Lancashire, especially in the autumn. As I swept along the M6 motorway, grey outcrops of rock would emerge slowly from the mist and cloud would envelope the fells on wet mornings. The murky shrouds would slip further sometimes to reveal the greens and browns of grass and bracken; occasionally, the brilliant white of early snow. The dry-stone walls on the lower slopes would always look anything but dry. Above them, if I was lucky, a bird of prey would hover, its gaze fixed on some unsuspecting victim before making its sudden plunge. At other times, if I were really lucky, I’d be driving along one side of a valley to find myself at the same height as a RAF fast jet on an early morning low-level sortie.
My return journeys on autumnal and wintry Friday nights were generally much less romantic, particularly in the unlit sections of the M6, between Manchester and Birmingham. As boring as those hideous drives were, they demanded at least two hours of total concentration when I was nearing my home, to avoid minor bumps and major carnage. I confess to a ghoulish fascination in other people’s misfortunes on the motorways; how I dreaded being part of them. I had an awful sense of foreboding you see that I would fall asleep at the wheel one day. The odds on me staying awake were not good; it just seemed to be a matter a time before my turn came; the number of near misses I had seemed conclusive proof. No wonder I was so grumpy at weekends and I sought reassuring solace from my sun lamp and the gym in the days that followed.
The trips south that I made between November and March caused me a special kind of anxiety. I could cope with the dreary cloud, relentless spray, insidious damp and thrashing rain of mild winter days. I could even cope with thick fog, just about. However, whenever it was clear, frosty or snowy, I hated the salty roads, smeary windscreens and belching exhausts. I’d always seem to be chasing the hundreds of warm red lights in front of me and fleeing from the hundreds of cold white ones behind. Alone in my car, yet in the company of thousands of strangers who also needed to hurtle about in dark metal cages, I’d listen to Enya sing sweetly for comfort. What utter nonsense and complete misery driving was in those horrid winter months.
Besides motorway driving, there were some other stressful aspects of my life. Although I enjoyed my job immensely, deadlines were always tight and standards were always high at work. My ‘living out of a suitcase’ for part of most weeks also put a great deal of pressure on my wife, Allie. Not only did she have her own demanding job to perform, but she also had to run our home and look after our children, Rob and Anne.
Yes, in reality, all these tensions contributed to my restlessness in November 1993 and strengthened the need to swap my fraught life style for something better. I just couldn’t face another fifteen years of trundling up and down Britain’s motorways before my retirement assuming, of course, that I managed to cheat death along the way. However, I wasn’t ready to give up work just yet. Instead, I sensed the need for some new challenge, something wildly spectacular. Consequently, I began a quest for the ultimate test of my skill and knowledge with little sense that I was, perhaps, being somewhat reckless.
Allie was supportive, as she had been for the whole of our married life, whenever I had a crisis like this. She understood my bouts of autumnal unease, even the particularly bad ones like this that coincided with my three-year itch. I must apologise to her now, for I was particularly difficult to live with during that third quarter of 1993.
At the time, my family and I were living in a five bedroom detached house in the English Midlands. With its integral garage, utility room, two bathrooms and fitted kitchen, many would have said that we were comfortably off. Two Volvo estates graced our driveway; we employed two part-time housekeepers to perform our domestic chores, and took holidays in the sun most years. We were a middle class, middle income family: dad with the main job, mum in support and two healthy happy children at school. Being concordant, conservative and conventional, we epitomised ‘Middle England’.
Perhaps our sense of comfort and our long-standing love of Mediterranean sunshine were to blame for putting all this at risk that autumn. Certainly, with each successive winter, I’d endured ever-deeper bouts of gloom. Although never formally diagnosed, I believe that I’d been suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) for many years.
To combat my melancholy, I’d get up early most November mornings to spit-roast myself in front of the sun lamp that we’d bought just after our marriage. Within minutes of basking in the infra red and ultra violet rays, I’d experience an overwhelming rush of well being. It was like the euphoric feeling of sliding into a tub of hot water after a heavy day at work. As I stood inelegantly, absorbing the radiation and listening to the tick of an oven-timer that I used to measure my exposure, my mind would wander. With red plastic goggles gouging ugly rings around my eyes, I’d conjure up images of sun-drenched beaches and lazy summer afternoons sipping long cool drinks.
Being in the ‘tele-worker’ vanguard, I had significant control over my working day. So, at lunchtime, long after my family had gone in their various directions, I’d visit my local gymnasium for an hour. By exercising myself to exhaustion, I’d often experience the same uplift that the sun lamp had given me earlier. Yes, I was a real ‘sun and gym junkie’ in those days.
Evidence that I suffered from SAD came from other sources too. For instance, I’d find my gloom lifting as the first days of Spring arrived. The weak warmth of early April sunshine, and the sight of daffodils coming into bloom, would send huge feelings of optimism and relief surging around my body. Summer was on its way and I would soon feel good about myself again. In my youth, I used to run up and down rugby pitches towing lorry tyres behind me, to build up the strength and stamina I needed as a second row forward. The arrival of Spring later in my life was akin to cutting the rope between the tyre and me. Released and free, I’d feel ready to tackle anything.
Conversely, I’d experience a sense of anti climax, doom and despondency as Mid-Summer’s Day approached. Unnoticed by most it seemed, the solstice signalled to me an end to ever-increasing amounts of daylight. Strangely though, with the passing of June, I’d enjoy most of July and August. Perhaps by then I’d accepted the inevitable onset of winter and resolved to make the most of what remained of the Northern Hemisphere’s warmth and light.
My temporary reprieve would have evaporated by September though. As my favourite rugby team played its first few matches of the season, its brightly coloured shirts would herald the return of winter to me. The still warm sun, low on the horizon during afternoon matches, would cause long shadows that followed the players about, like ghosts of the winter months that would soon haunt me.
Once Bonfire Night had whizzed and crackled its way into history, my post-autumnal pessimism would have set in for the duration. In retrospect therefore, England's incessant greyness around 5 November 1993 was undoubtedly a spur to the many gambles that followed shortly thereafter. It contributed greatly to my sense of restlessness.
I’m sure other factors played their part too in what friends came to see as a lemming-like urge to commit occupational and social suicide. One such factor might have been my urge to move on in my life every three years or so, something that I attributed partly to my service in the British Forces, and their typical ‘tour’ lengths. In brief, I'd served as an army reservist between 1975 and 1980, before transferring to the Royal Air Force with a permanent commission.
Finally leaving uniformed service in 1986, I’d moved into industry and, since 1990, I’d been working for a video company in the north of England as a consultant scriptwriter. Consequently, my challenges at work were quite glamorous and stimulating compared to most people’s, and sixty-hour working weeks always flew past. In fact, I found my work so exciting that I’d often wake in the middle of the night to scribble down ideas, just in case they’d gone by the morning, such was my love of labour at the time.
When I look back now, and view my job in the context of Britain’s economic recession, I realise just how well off I was. Like my teacher wife, I enjoyed creative freedom and professional fulfilment. Both of our jobs were secure and we’d accumulated a reasonable amount of material wealth.
However, we did pay for the honour, dignity and privilege of work; sometimes dearly. My job was laden with stress: mainly because of the significant amounts of travel and congested roads normally associated with my ‘days at the office’. Between Monday and Wednesday most weeks, I'd telework from home in sublime tranquillity, with my sun lamp and the gym to fill any spare moments. Then, at five o’clock most Thursday mornings, I'd travel two hundred and sixty miles north through traffic jams, road works, foul weather and dubious driving, for a couple of days’ office work in England’s Lake District.
The outbound trips weren’t so bad. At least I’d be heading into the emptier roads of northern England and the dawn would overtake me. Once the Manchester Ship Canal was passed, the cut-and-thrust of driving through Cheshire would give way to the relative peacefulness of Lancashire’s roads. Crossing the border between these counties was like stepping through a time portal sometimes. From modern Britain, to a Britain of yesteryear, when driving was still a pleasure.
I always liked driving through Cumbria, the county beyond Lancashire, especially in the autumn. As I swept along the M6 motorway, grey outcrops of rock would emerge slowly from the mist and cloud would envelope the fells on wet mornings. The murky shrouds would slip further sometimes to reveal the greens and browns of grass and bracken; occasionally, the brilliant white of early snow. The dry-stone walls on the lower slopes would always look anything but dry. Above them, if I was lucky, a bird of prey would hover, its gaze fixed on some unsuspecting victim before making its sudden plunge. At other times, if I were really lucky, I’d be driving along one side of a valley to find myself at the same height as a RAF fast jet on an early morning low-level sortie.
My return journeys on autumnal and wintry Friday nights were generally much less romantic, particularly in the unlit sections of the M6, between Manchester and Birmingham. As boring as those hideous drives were, they demanded at least two hours of total concentration when I was nearing my home, to avoid minor bumps and major carnage. I confess to a ghoulish fascination in other people’s misfortunes on the motorways; how I dreaded being part of them. I had an awful sense of foreboding you see that I would fall asleep at the wheel one day. The odds on me staying awake were not good; it just seemed to be a matter a time before my turn came; the number of near misses I had seemed conclusive proof. No wonder I was so grumpy at weekends and I sought reassuring solace from my sun lamp and the gym in the days that followed.
The trips south that I made between November and March caused me a special kind of anxiety. I could cope with the dreary cloud, relentless spray, insidious damp and thrashing rain of mild winter days. I could even cope with thick fog, just about. However, whenever it was clear, frosty or snowy, I hated the salty roads, smeary windscreens and belching exhausts. I’d always seem to be chasing the hundreds of warm red lights in front of me and fleeing from the hundreds of cold white ones behind. Alone in my car, yet in the company of thousands of strangers who also needed to hurtle about in dark metal cages, I’d listen to Enya sing sweetly for comfort. What utter nonsense and complete misery driving was in those horrid winter months.
Besides motorway driving, there were some other stressful aspects of my life. Although I enjoyed my job immensely, deadlines were always tight and standards were always high at work. My ‘living out of a suitcase’ for part of most weeks also put a great deal of pressure on my wife, Allie. Not only did she have her own demanding job to perform, but she also had to run our home and look after our children, Rob and Anne.
Yes, in reality, all these tensions contributed to my restlessness in November 1993 and strengthened the need to swap my fraught life style for something better. I just couldn’t face another fifteen years of trundling up and down Britain’s motorways before my retirement assuming, of course, that I managed to cheat death along the way. However, I wasn’t ready to give up work just yet. Instead, I sensed the need for some new challenge, something wildly spectacular. Consequently, I began a quest for the ultimate test of my skill and knowledge with little sense that I was, perhaps, being somewhat reckless.
Allie was supportive, as she had been for the whole of our married life, whenever I had a crisis like this. She understood my bouts of autumnal unease, even the particularly bad ones like this that coincided with my three-year itch. I must apologise to her now, for I was particularly difficult to live with during that third quarter of 1993.
posted by Hawkeye at 5:57 am
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