It had started on Wednesday September 19 th 1982 at twenty-two hundred
hours, the day I was born. I could tell you how many seconds I’ve been living,
how many miles I have travelled but that might be too much information.
Its nine steps from the bed to the bathroom. Twenty-six from the bathroom to
the kitchen, thirty-two steps from the kettle to the sofa. One hundred and
eighty steps from the front door to the post box. When people ask me for
directions I always start with how many steps it will take them.
I count sheep in my sleep and alpacas whilst I’m dozing. It drives my wife to
distraction. She says she hears me all the time muttering numbers. She still
hasn’t forgiven me when the chip pan caught fire, my fault, and I carried her
out of the house in a fireman’s lift and announced seventy nine steps to the
applause of our neighbours. She didn’t go out for twenty-two days, thirty-three
minutes and fifty-six seconds.
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