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Sunday Morning Coming Down

By Andrew Vaughan


Been looking back a bit recently. Twenty seven or so years ago and to be honest it was there then. Not as bad but I had my moments. Stood on tube station platforms. Back against the wall, keeping my distance, minding the gap. The cans of brew. The ganja. The fucking Leonard Cohen records...


I fought it then and I am fighting it now. It's just getting harder. At my age - at our age - it should be wind-down time. Put your feet up, travel the world, let the kids be. A mate of mine said to me: "I'm loving being fifty,
"I'm okay.
"Missus is okay we're just going to do what we want now."
He's in the minority. For as I look around i see other mates that somehow just don't look "right". The zest has left them. They are quiet. Worried. Hear it in their voice and see it in their eyes. An exiled-mate of mine came up from London the other week and we got talking about an old school pal that died in mysterious circumstances recently. Burned to death in his car. Not sure if he meant to do it or not. He'd hit the booze. Found remains of a couple of empty bottles of whisky in the car. Not sure whether he just fell asleep and the cigarette dropped and set alight or whether it was some plan. Fucking sad. Lovely lad. Got too much. Daughter was with a bastard, pressure at work. all rumours but...


And we got talking about Christine - a girl we went to school with/I went out with. Truly, truly beautiful. No longer with us. Depression. And another mate. Clever as fuck, hard as nails. Drank himself to an early death. Too many demons.
There must be others I don't know about. Will be others. Just seems to be a general malaise around the place I inhabit at the moment. Walk down the canal a few times a week. Say hello to the familiar faces. Have a chinwag. Used to be: "Alright, how you doing?" "Good." Now it's "not too bad". "Not too good". "Alright I suppose".
Lads I know - some struggling with work or lack of work pressures. Others apparently doing fine but... See it's there amongst us all. It's the thing few of us talk about. Bottle it in. We don't go the doctors when we can hardly breathe/talk we're not going to go for this, are we?


As I say I've been fighting it for near on thirty years. Always there. Even more so when I've had a drink. That great depressant alcohol. Rarely drink now apart from a Saturday. Out for the day. For the football, a few after and a few laughs. And they are laughs and then it kicks in. As I walk home, open the door and sit in the dark. And it is horrible. Fight the thing. Have a coffee, hold back the tears for as long as I can and if I can't and I think of the fuck-ups, the exes, the lack of children, my old mate in the car, my dad, the lack of work, the lack of self-esteem... And I'm not the only one. I'm not the only one fighting it. Not the only one bottling it up inside but... To sleep and the morning. Sunday morning and alive and another day. Another day, another week. Hopefully okay for a while. Back to life, back to reality as somebody once sang...
If Swine Magazine paid then the author's fees would have been donated to CALM - the Campaign Against Living Miserably http://thecalmzone.net/



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