Project Mayhem

There's nothing better on a sunny afternoon than lying on the grass in the back garden and reading a book.

It's a sunny afternoon, and that's what I'm doing.

Chuck Palahnuik's 'Fight Club'. They made a film of it some years back. I bet you've seen it.

This scene half-way through where the narrator is sat in a car driven by the fight club mechanic, a couple of shaven-headed space monkeys in the back.

The mechanic's on one, ranting about Project Mayhem.

Then, head out of the window, he lets loose.

You're not how much money you've got in the bank, he yells.

You're not your job.

You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself.

You're not your name, he continues.

You're not your problems.

You're not your age.

Swerving into the opposite lane, playing chicken with the approaching traffic, his tirade continues.

You will not be saved.

We are all going to die, someday.

With an oncoming car screaming its horn, he looks over coolly and says,

Quick. What will you wish you'd done before you died? 

If I'd read that passage when I was 16, I'd have been buzzing. But I'm not 16 any more.

What will you wish you'd done before you died?

I lie for a bit and think about it.

My mind wanders. I rest my forearm on my forehead, open my eyes very slightly, let some sunlight in and then squeeze them shut, checking out the kaleidoscopic patterns on the inside of my eyelids. I used to like doing this as a kid, and I still like it now.

I have a little sleep for who-knows-how-long.

Eventually my thinking returns to the mechanic's pressing question.

What will you wish you'd done before you died?

But an answer doesn't come to mind straight away.

Instead, there's this uneasy feeling. All this chasing, craving, grabbing. All this wringing every possible experience out of life for it to be labelled worthwhile.

For a life to be well-lived, is a question like the mechanic's, along with all those supposedly inspirational 'go for it!' memes plastered all over the fucking internet, part of the solution or part of the problem?

Why are we never, ever, satisfied?

I sit up and open my eyes.

Lying beside me on an old blanket, this bundle of fur, legs outstretched, mouth slightly ajar, tongue lolling. Little Elsie.

It's then I realise.

Right now, there's only one thing I want to do. And if I die straight afterwards, it will be an amazing finale to this crazy cabaret of the last 49 years.

Project Mayhem can wait a while.

I creep, barefoot, into the kitchen, grab my i-pod loaded with The Archers Omnibus and the dog's lead.

Seeing me stick my head out of the back door, Elsie sits up, ears cocked in expectation.

'Come on, rugrat,' I say to her as she starts to trot over.

'Let's go for a long walk.'