It was a never-to-be viral post of a lifetime. A heartfelt reflection on being banged up, beaten up, and booked on a fifteen year, rinse and repeat round trip, to big pharmacies from the serving dispensaries of Peckham Rye to the street corners of Shoreham-by-Sea. It was a welcome home post announcing my return to civvy life, a lazy-boned Lazarus risen from a tragically long tour of sofa duty.

The post, five years old to the day, flashed up on the feed following a run between the alleyways of trees and undergrowth of the nearby park, during downtime slumped back on the couch in a transformed state with a cooly regulated nervous system.

On reading back, words spilling like a wasted pint glass of premium priced Indian Pale over the cushions, I remembered the strength and resilience it took to break the heartbreak to broken Britain and the world tilting precariously on its axis.

The post, which briefly warmed my black and charred cockles during Lockdown, was ultimately destined for internet oblivion amongst the slow fading messages of love and support from old circles, yet somehow signposted a deeper search for recovery armed with the mighty pen and a paragraph or three.