He sat for a while in his car in Bradford Hospital carpark. As always, the sky was grey and the town depressing.
He had entered the outpatients with a sore shoulder and came out with Parkinsons. That was a surprise, he thought. Though not half as much a surprise as being told that the new-born baby in his hands had Down's Syndrome. No, compared to that this was a breeze.
He telephoned his wife and they met up at the pub by the river in Bingley. He had a pint of landlord. It was supposed to be very good beer but tasted sour to him. In fact beer brands generally seemed to be turning sour. Ironic - he had been in New Zealand for 15 years missing 'real ale' all that time and now he had the opportunity every pint in the country was now off. Strange.
He told his wife the news the news. She didn't seem too perturbed.
He took a week off work. Any excuse to avoid the daily drive to Halifax and HBOS . The roads seemed to be getting narrower, the nights darker every month.
He hated the bank, he hated the weather, he hated being in England.
This is getting boring so we shall skip lightly over the next year. Except for a few words on sexual obsession as caused by a massive over-prescription of Dopamine Agonists. He started getting very interested in a fat prostitute in Halifax who advertised on-line and had some interesting options. Alas for this story, he was too cowardly, or sensible as its usually referred to, to actually do anything about it except fantasise in the silent dark garden-room at 2am of dallying with Fat Bertha and her toys.
So lets continue skipping to where his wife, a university lecturer, got a job offer in Australia. Hip hip hooray, lets leave this dank over-crowded miserable little island f(no offence meant) and head for the sun-scorched empty vastness of the red continent. And goodbye HBOS, now part of the vast evil moronic disgusting empire of Lloyds bank (offence meant). Goodbye genetically challenged Halifax! Goodbye Fat Bertha! I will always wonder what if...
to be continued