I feel so much rage sometimes. My belly is on fire and the first flicker stemmed from inadequacy. Why was I forced to learn about a burning bush instead of the reasons that pain sears through my belly as I write? I don’t understand why we aren’t better prepared for the battlefield? I don’t even know how to hold a sword. I just stand there with my shield held high above my head. I stand my ground and defend. It’s the only way I know how to behave. There is nothing subtle about my relationship skills – it’s just pure blunt defence.

But my defence sends me into a spin. I feel like that lost sock tumbling around in the machine. Please stop spinning…please stop spinning. You see a good sturdy defence is supposed to save you from harm. My shield stands strong and yet splinters have invaded my skin and sink into my heart with a snarl. Where did they come from? I don’t understand. Please stop spinning.

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“Maybe a portal opened and a pterodactyl flew in just as our train was passing through?”

It’s not the most convincing explanation I can come up with – and probably very unlikely – but I am somewhat perplexed all the same. The train has come to a grinding halt – in the middle of nowhere – and the conductor has just explained that we have hit a big bird causing the air pipes to fracture. The air is leaking meaning we can’t generate a brake, meaning we aren’t moving.

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All of my life, I have been a jack-of-all-trades and master of none. It starts with a fire in my belly. It may be an idea that I have stolen from someone’s words, or it could be one of those random eureka moments that happen from time to time. I start to blow the fire and it grows. I may write something. I might order some books on the spark of ingenuity. But generally I just talk about it, trying to pull other people into my imagination.

Then before you know it there is another fire lit inside my belly. It’s the same formula as the last, and I am now trying to fan both sets of flames in order to keep the pyres burning; keep my interest solid. Before you know it the first fire has been extinguished and it becomes a great idea that now rests in a pile of ashes known as the back burner. I move from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust, and that’s how I live my life.

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When I was 10-years of age I won my first ever trophy when my beloved 7th Reddish under 11′s football team came runners-up in the Supplementary Cup against West End. I can still remember the size and shape of the trophy as if it were in my hands right now. I won many more trophies for football thereafter but none were as special as that first one.

During my time on the rail roads our CEO created an EWS Awards scheme. It was our Oscars, with the very best in the business being honoured for exceptional work over the previous 12-months. I was nominated – and won – an award for Excellence Towards Cost Control. It was an amazing experience to be honoured amongst your peers in an awards ceremony and once again I was a very proud and happy person.

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I used to wake up suddenly, in the middle of the night, believing that I had forgotten to do something important in work. It would seem so realistic that on times I couldn’t separate the actual things that I had forgotten to do and the imaginary ones. The only time that I would get any form of continuous sleep would be when I was drunk. If I were sober then I would wake up almost every hour. My alarm clock would blink at me with its beady red eyes. I would be at my most tired, minutes before the machine would scream. Lucky I always seemed to wake up just seconds before that wretched sound. There is nothing more sinister than that sound. Starting your day to the sound of an alarm clock is a horrible way to live.

I would lie in bed, underneath my three quilts, dreading the cold. My mind would race forward to the day ahead and it would upset me. I reach over and kiss my wife on the back of her head and summon up the courage to leave. Almost in unison, the first sounds of the creaking pipes bellow from under the floorboards as the central heating kicks in. The cat, that I hate, brushes itself against me and walks in front of me trying to deliberately trip me up as I walk. Every few seconds it cries this horrible little cry.

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I am starting to become convinced that taxi driving is an occupation that people undertake when they are moving from one life to another. It’s almost like a serene pasture for them. Somewhere to earn a bit of money whilst their mind is free to discover what it is that they want to do next. I don’t own a car and I travel a lot, so I meet a lot of taxi drivers, and a lot of them have a great understanding of what life is all about. But as is the case with a lot of people in life, they still haven’t managed to move on from thinking to acting.

This morning I left my home in South Wales, UK, to travel to Monte Carlo, France, I rang a driver called Jeff to come and pick me up because I really enjoy talking to him. We are strangers, after meeting once before, but the intimacy that a cab journey offers you accentuates your relationship and I feel like I have known him for years. The first time I took a cab with him the journey flew by and when we had reached the airport we were still deep in discussion. This morning we continued from where we had left of previously.

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In my previous incarnation as a manager of people, I had to learn to deal with death. I was even trained to deliver the news that a loved one had died in service. Although I avoided this dreaded deed, I did have to visit widows of my recently deceased employees to ensure their welfare was looked after. Dealing with the aftermath of death is a very difficult time, but one that can be made a lot easier with some forward planning.

For death begins with life’s first breath, and life begins at the touch of death – John Oxenham

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