I will today speak of the beginning of the concatenation of events which led me to become an outlaw in America, hunted by the police in all fifty states. With each passing day I feel more and more that I must record for posterity all which has happened, for, at 113 years of age, I can never know which breath will be my last, when I’ll be dispatched to my Eternal Reward.
It’s not that I feel I may momentarily be dispatched to my Eternal Reward, since I keep in excellent shape by working out regularly, and I eat healthily – salads, tofu, fish, and all of that. No, it’s that, statistically, I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was three-score-and-ten, some forty-three years ago. I’m dreadfully afraid of dying, although I’ve courted death most of my life, for I fought as a soldier in both world wars, and throughout the British Empire, helping put down the periodic insurrections of the natives who failed to see the benefits of British rule.
Many, many times I’ve been shot at, but somehow the bullets missed, except the one which felled me on the Somme in 1916, but I survived that. Then a year and a half ago, at the stage of life when I could expect to live more sedately, I became an outlaw in America, a situation I brought about. It’s as if I have a death-wish, for being an outlaw is dangerous, believe you me.
I wonder, though, whether my great age is because God wants me to live an especially long life. So whenever I’ve been about to – how shall I say – snuff it, He stepped in and and saved me. So perhaps He’ll arrange it so I get out of the mess I’m in and return to my little home in dear old England.
On the other hand, God may have arranged that I get into this mess, in order that the experience inwardly strengthen me for the further things He has planned for me on earth. Thus my travails may be in a Higher Cause. Perhaps that Higher Cause is this web-log, which future generations will regard in the same light as Proust’s A La Recherche du Temps Perdu, or Robert Graves’ Goodbye To All That – to become a work which will be another jewel in mankind’s crown.
Perhaps I am God, who chose to become a man just to experience what it’s like. And part of that experience is not to know I’m God, and to expect to die when I become old, thereafter to be merely rotting bones in the ground. But, in fact, when I die, I’ll simply go back to being God. Thus I’m immortal and can do just what I like.
I see I’ve digressed, for I had intended to speak of the beginning of the concatenation of events which led me to become an outlaw in America, hunted by the police in all fifty states. But I’ve gone on long enough.
Perhaps next time………..