So close, and yet so far - a true story in many parts.

My given name is Rupert. I write this story with an acute awareness of harbouring a heavy heart, and yet, I feel that by sharing my story, I may eventually be able to move on with a different, fresher perspective; at least, this is what I have been told might happen when one scribes one's experiences of life.

Currently, I am officially homeless, or, if I apply the label the local authorities prefer, 'destitute'. Having recently been discharged from hospital with a diagnosis of liver cirrhosis, and after a heart attack, a bout of pneumonia, and advanced pancreatitis as the result of a three-month binge on cheap vodka, and Thai spirits, I find myself convalescing on a houseboat which is moored south west of London, England.

Mind you, things have not always been this way; only five months ago (I write this initial offering towards the end of October 2017), I shared a spacious two-bedroomed house on stilts on a tropical island in south-east Asia with my Swiss wife, Sandra. I had work - I worked as an ecumenical minister mainly officiating weddings at the swish Conrad Hilton, as well as tutoring French students who wished to improve their English. I had a car, a couple of dogs, a few choice friends, money, food on the table (my favourite dish is papaya salad with fish steamed in banana leaves), a garden ...... I had everything a man could want, or wish for, and yet, I blew it all.

I'm sure the reader will know the expression "procrastination is the thief if time" - putting stuff off until the morrow - "manjana, manjana, hombre"" - well, today is the the day that I squeeze my butt cheeks together, and do what any writer in need needs to, and that is to write!

Born in post-war England to my father, Robert, a jobbing actor, and to Barry, my mother, who worked in the movie business at Pinewood and Elstree studios, I was placed on the care of a Portuguese nanny from a very early age. I rarely saw my parents though I lacked for nothing aside from affection.

To compound matters, domestic life, though I was too young to remember, was fraught with drama, and difficulty.
You see, my mother began having an affair with my nanny, and, according to heresay, she wanted my father to physically participate in their relationship, as well as welcoming my nanny, my mother's lover, into the house as a new member of the family - a veritable ménage-a-trios. This was too much for Robert to bear; he upped and left for Hollywood. I must have been two years of age at that time.

To be continued....