Three days into the purge and my body was rejecting the heavy metals being exorcized like unholy gem minerals from the bloodstream. I was trooping in the sub-Saharan conditions to the local municipality space, in a haze of hunger and fatigue, to the tree where the magic always takes root.

The Soul Asylums, my memoir of love, hope and recovery was fast approaching a deadline with the printers, and the time had come to pay homage to the old Birch where I buried the ashes of past struggles, to honour the tree where time always stands still.

After a quick interlude of tree hugging communion under the watchful eye of a scrolling kid in an Albion shirt, I strolled to locate a memorial bench in the shade. Scanning the gold fitted plaques for messages and meaning from loved ones, I took a deep breath and exhaled something like pure release.

Staring out across the dusty desert bowl of the park where the grass once grew as the kids played ball, I watched the welcome wind ripple through the lofty heights of the treetops. And, feeling the natural laws in play, I reflected on how this journey of walking blind confronting timeless waves of failure, had brought me to the calmer waters of success and reward in the long game.