My being on the run from the police in America has its genesis in the web-logosphere. Sitting in my study each morning in my country retreat in dear old England which I fear I’ll never again see, I would read the latest postings on my favourite web-logs. In this way I became so addicted to the web-logosphere that I began my own web-log, which led little by little to my present terrible circumstances.
It may seem strange that a very old man such as I, should immerse himself reading and writing web-logs, given they are part and parcel of so contemporary a medium as the internet. Thus I belong to the avant garde, my fingers on the Zeitgeist. Doubtless you’re thinking that, far from belonging to the avant garde with my fingers on the Zeitgeist, I should be slumped in a wheelchair in an old people’s home, wrapped in a shawl and blanket, the spittle from my toothless old mouth running down my chin, too helpless to do anything, let alone reading and writing web-logs on the internet – a medium unimaginable in the Victorian and Edwardian England in which I came of age.
I was, fortunately, blessed with excellent genes, for both my mater and pater lived to very old ages, albeit the ages they lived to weren’t quite what mine is today. And I don’t remember either ever being ill until just before each departed to meet their Maker. I, of course, did have my differences with my mater and pater. In short, we didn’t always get along. However, if nothing else, I’ll always be grateful to them for the excellent genes they bequeathed me, for I, too, have never been ill enough to take to my bed, and, absent my mater and pater’s genes, I would surely be long dead.
I should qualify my saying that I’ve “……never been ill enough to take to my bed…….”, for I did once take to my bed, and for many months, since my bed was, of all places, in a military hospital. This was during World War One, when, as a subaltern fighting against the Boche in the trenches in France, I sustained serious wounds. I’m sure that, but for the genes of my mater and pater, I would have died of my wounds.
While good genes are important, they are never quite enough. Thus throughout my long life I’ve always exercised vigorously, and, until relatively recently, I did this daily. Now, in a concession to age, I’ve cut exercising to once each two days. As I’ve explained in previous postings, I exercise as do boxers, for I’ve had a lifelong love of the Sweet Science. In my workouts I punch both the speed and heavy bags, skip rope, and spar. I also jog two miles each second day, since developing stamina, which jogging does, is de rigueur for the self-respecting boxer.
As I’ve also said in a previous posting, I was sufficiently skilled in the Sweet Science to have won the middleweight championship of the British Army in 1946 when 51. Why so long? for 51 is old to win a title. Well, the reason was World War Two, which began when I was 44, when boxing tournaments were put in cold storage, given the British Army having more urgent things with which to occupy itself, than hold boxing tournaments.
Ideally 1919, following the Armistice, when I was 23, was the time to quest the title, for at 23 a boxer is in his prime. However, just as World War Two foiled my championship plans, so had World War One, since, from age 19 to 23, I was either fighting the Boche in the trenches of France, or was in the hospital recovering from wounds. Only in 1922, when I was 27, did I recover sufficiently to resume gym workouts. Add to this, that between 1922 and 1939 I languished mostly in military garrisons in far flung places throughout the British Empire – places so far flung that they didn’t have gyms to train in. Then came World War 2. Thus the championship eluded me until I was in my boxing dotage.
Despite my age, I’m considering officially returning to the ring. Doubtless my reflexes won’t quite be what they were, and I might have to fight as a lightweight or welterweight rather than as a middleweight, for I’m lighter now than in 1946, when last I fought. Hopefully I’ve retained my middleweight punching power, which would overwhelm my lightweight or welterweight opponents, thus compensating for my slower reflexes.
My returning to the ring depends, of course, on my escaping America and back to dear old England. Easier said than done, given that the police in America are looking for me – in all 50 states.