15 May 2013


I once wrote a short story where the techie central character invented an app for choosing your best-case date for topping yourself (or anyone else, for that matter, so long as you knew their key dates).

But let's deal with ones own suicide: you tap in all the dates that count - yours and others' birthdays, Christmas, anniversaries, dates of meaning or memories - anything over which your bumping yourself off would cast an unfair gloom forever more.

I recall that you could also grade the dates in importance, i.e. everyone ticks Christmas as the one day over all that you dont want to mess up for your nearest and dearest.

Then you press the button and the app whirrs and wheezes and comes up with a suggested date equi-distant from everything significant and with baggage. It was a very neat device and you could choose the sportsman version that steered you clear of all the Big Game days (so you didnt screw up future Superbowls or Test Matches for your homies), or the artist version that warned you off key dates on the musical or artistic calendar, etc etc.

I can't remember how the story ended but I received a ton of mail asking for the most minute details of the 'Sukaidometer'.

Anyway, I was today reminded of my clever idea while looking round the property and realising that I was short-changed on the full euphoria when freedom finally came.

It's no use suddenly being spared in winter because you're indoors anyway, hiding from the weather. 

The time for the Angel of Mercy to strike is when spirits are lowest and hopelessness blossoming on every twig, when the prospect of vile gardenry is everywhere and no escape.

That's when to have the prison door open and a sour-faced screw announce, "All right get outta here ... no more gardening for you."
There's you gazing despairingly thru the cell bars at the blue sky and waving fronds and clank of spade and secateurs ... the day fucked ... but no! You're free. 

Hard to believe, huh? You think it's a trick, you'll be reaching for a celebratory tot on the patio, sticking your tongue out at some accursèd petal-y thing and wham! April Fuchsia Fool, sucker. 

It's got to be in the middle of the busiest most depressing time of the hobby season.

January doesn't offer the same 'bummer to bliss' extremes.

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