My mind is usually in a state of chaos with thoughts – both abstract and defined – fighting for supremacy. At one end of the continuum, daydreaming can be therapeutic and provides the space for creativity and imagination to enthrall and entertain. At the extreme, I can indulge in over thinking. Wherever the cognitive dial pivots, the outcome is pretty consistent: exhaustion!
Luckily, many of my reflections are published, and although I hope to entertain and educate others, my personal victory embraces a catalogue of cathartic commentary that I truly believe prevents me from totally tipping over the edge.
On a flight to Morocco it suddenly struck me that I need to clear out some of the ancient archives holding me to ransom. How this notion was nurtured remains a mystery; was it the altitude, or the captivity of a window seat on a rather compact Wizz Air flight, which provoked a decision to enact my own exposé. I am a closet claustrophobic; perhaps on this occasion asking the two lumps next to me to move so that I could access the loo focused my mind on a rather random result: decluttering.
I am by no means religious, but there are elements of this sphere that nonetheless fascinate me. I love nothing more than exploring religious sites during my travels across the globe and I regularly use holy words to compliment my habit of swearing – often at the most trivial mishaps of everyday living, such as successfully opening a black bin bag without ripping it to shreds in the process; obviously, I curse during the alternative outcome too. The Catholic practice of confession has always fascinated me – probably because I’m by nature nosey.
1. The Kingfisher.
Aged about six, I somehow ended up in the living room with a mate, throwing a beach ball around. What fun we had as we punched the bag of air up towards the ceiling and at tangents in between. I later learned in school about kinetic energy, but experienced its power then and there when the ball connected with my mum’s Kingfisher ornament that wobbled for what seemed an eternity before diving towards the hearth and smashing into a million pieces. I can exaggerate since I was only a kid and hardly had much experience of epic trauma. Nonetheless, I was cunning and successfully blamed my younger sister for allowing the miscreant to charge into our house with the inflatable. Aged three, she had little in the way of a persuasive defensive argument skillset and was summarily convicted. Sorry Lynne.
2. The shag pile.
Aged 19, and on the cusp of joining the police, I got hammered at a local pub with a friend who was, as I recall, tee total. Crashing on the sofa of his family home, the lounge ceiling began to rotate. The swirls in the Artex resembled a Van Gogh classic and my wonder was only interrupted when I threw up all over the shag pile carpet.
I did my best to clear the scene and hide the evidence before skulking off in the morning after declining breakfast. The cementing of the lush weave with the contents of my stomach must have stopped the vacuum cleaner in its tracks, although I suspect the rancid smell was the chief giveaway. Sorry Mrs McSherry.
As a rookie cop, I was unashamedly one dimensional. Nicking villains and reporting folk for summons was my raison d’etre. I was regularly top of the “process chart” that in the 1980s was the crude performance indicator. At the time I had the scariest of senior managers too – Inspector Scowen – who didn’t scowl at those that delivered the goods.
Inspecting the paper driving licence of a wholly reasonable member of the public, I immediately noticed that she hadn’t signed it. Like a Kingfisher (this memory is daunting), I dived for my prey and reported her. In that instance I probably lost the faith of an upstanding citizen who no doubt negatively influenced her friends after this brash bobby showed no regard to the often-touted premise of discretion. What a 5-star plonker (and that’s putting it mildly). Sorry Mrs Motorist.
4. Believing that my dad was indestructible.
My dad was my best friend. I owe him so much, and his values have shaped my life and continue to do so long after his passing. My sporting passions continue his legacy, with speedway and football representing more than just pastimes. He was a raker at Long Eaton Speedway – bringing the displaced shale back to the centre of the bends after every fourth heat to ensure that the riders enjoyed the grip that makes this one of the most thrilling motorsports on the planet. Latterly he wore with pride the Veteran Speedway and Dirt Track Association members badge; the same as countless riders and world champions. Although he was principally a Reading Royals fan, he nonetheless introduced me to my hometown love, Notts County.
Dad developed a liver complaint in his early 70s and was hospitalised for a short while. During his days in the RAF he served on Christmas Island where nuclear tests were conducted. I joked that he glowed in the dark!
After being discharged from hospital, and unbeknown to me, he was immediately readmitted, dying shortly afterwards. I held his hand and told him all the things I should have told him when he was alive. I’m still emotionally spent every time Notts take to the field, as the space that should be taken by my mate is forever vacant. Sorry dad for believing you were immortal. The pain is still real – and Notts are still struggling!
5. Not taking care of my own health.
As an operational cop for the majority of my 20- odd year stint in the fuzz, I abused my body. Overeating and alcohol conspired with my arrogant mindset to make me type 2 diabetic. Personally, I think this description is an insult to those born with type 1 diabetes; maybe if type 2 was labelled as “food fatty” the dialogue on responsibility for one’s own wellbeing would be a much healthier and more honest debate.
Although I successfully reversed the condition after an epiphany moment, I have to accept that some damage is irreversible, and I will always remain susceptible to other health problems. Thinking that I was immune to inappropriate lifestyle choices was folly. Sorry to me.
Ah! I feel better, and if you have lasted the course, thanks for listening. This has been very therapeutic!
As for some of the other smouldering confessions, I’d first like to check on the statute of limitations before bearing all. For the rest I guess I’ll need a lawyer.
© Ian Kirke 2025
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Title Photograph by Taylor Smith on Unsplash.