Yeah, I know, they’re pretty pathetic, but I find them amusing. In reality though I can remember being born. I have this clear impression of pressure all around me and then suddenly light and noise. It is an extremely clear feeling and memory. It has been with me even before I knew what a memory was or knew what being born was. I have no idea why I do remember it so vividly. I have never known of anyone else who remembers being born.

My next memory is of being carried on my Nanny’s back. My Nanny was a Zulu and it is their tradition to carry their babies strapped securely on their backs in a blanket. I would be taken for walks like this rather than in the stroller. I can remember being bounced on her back and her and the other neighbourhood Nannies meeting at the corner for a chat and a laugh. My memory is of being safe and warm and, in my half asleep state, I found their loud chatter somewhat comforting.

To go along with my memory of being born I have a memory of dieing. As a small child I was extremely ill. Things became so bad that my parents were persuaded to allow the doctor to administer a new experimental drug. At the lowest part of my illness I remember seeing the painting that hung on the wall opposite my bed begin to get smaller and smaller as I experienced the sensation of falling backwards into a large void and seemingly floating in that blackness until I slowly began to rise up towards a white light that grew bigger and bigger as the painting had grown smaller and smaller.

Once the drug began to work its magic I awoke, back in my room, the painting its normal size. It was only many years later, when reading of near death experiences, that I realised how close I had been to dieing. The doctors had said at the time that without the drug I would have died. Interestingly only one in every ten children who were given that drug survived and it was eventually taken off the market. I was lucky.

I hated school and do not have many happy memories of those days. I grew up in a time when teachers thought sadism was a prerequisite for maintaining discipline in class. As I got older though I hoped for three with the cane rather than a 6 page essay. The pain from the caning would be over in minutes and the welts would provide bragging rights. A 6 page essay took the best part out of an afternoon’s play.

There were a few positives. The time that I won the prize for English. The downside was that no one was there to be proud of me. My father had left us many years before and probably was in a drunken stupor the night I collected my prize. My mother was out on a ‘date’. The book I won is still somewhere among my possessions.

I was a good swimmer and saved Nigel Timson’s life. He was a first year and could not swim. He had been punished by the prefects and told to swab the pool surrounds after an afternoon of swimming practice. He was lucky that I was still practicing my diving when he fell into the deep end of the pool. I got a mention in assembly and a bravery award at the end of term prize giving. I never received any thanks from Nigel or his family.

I did not study further after school. I decided that more could be gained from earning a living. Banking was a good profession and I was fortunate to get a position in a Merchant Bank. If truth be told I was not a very good banker. The highpoint of my career was allowing a client to withdraw considerably more than was held in their account. Fortunately that incident did not end my banking career, but a subsequent call up to do National Service did.

Considering my dislike of the imposed disciplines of school and banking, I loved the army. The training period was hell, but I enjoyed every muscle straining minute of it. I was promoted to lance corporal in that brief time and for once I felt my life had meaning. Unfortunately my army career was to be extremely short. After basics I was deployed straight to the front line and within a week of being there I was wounded. We were still in base camp when the enemy attacked us. They threw a grenade into our tent. I was the only one to survive.

I am diagnosed as being in a vegetative state, but cannot tell them otherwise. I have endured this living hell for more than half my life. Every morning I am sat in the same chair and my legs covered with a rug. My eyes stare at the wall opposite. On the wall is a calendar. I am grateful that the staff religiously turn over to the new month so that at the beginning of each month I have a picture to bank into my memory. Every day I stare at the calendar and pray that today is the day I see it get smaller and smaller as I fall backwards into the abyss.