A Lad from Featherstone

14th December 1998. Mid Atlantic, 1,600 miles from St Lucia. Three crew, my client, skipper James (if you missed James's last time click here) and me. Three hours on watch and six off. Cruising chute (big kite) full of wind, too much wind as it’s now 30 knots and should have been down two hours ago. James, Marlborough in hand, gives me clear instruction, ‘clip on, go forward, find the down rope on the snuffer (a 20m long condom) and pull it down when I shout now’. Seas huge and surfing down the swell. I crawl along the deck, attach myself to the shrouds (wires holding up the mast) and await the call. ‘Pull now’ I hear. I pull with all my strength but nothing. We surf down the next wave, I feel the boat turn into the swell, it’s rolling, it keeps rolling and we are going over. In sailing jargon we have broached, I am now standing knee deep in the ocean, gripping the shrouds as the mast hits the water, my feet on the rail, the deck against my shoulder and water everywhere. ‘Pull, pu

 I have two brothers, Michael [Mick] & John. Two weeks after the cortisone injections, (click here if you missed it) my dad invited me to Bridlington (Brid - I spent every summer there from birth to 18 in their caravan) to see mum and dad (88 & 90) along with Mick, John and partners. First the background. I am the oldest of four, now three as sadly Mandy (features in many of my earlier blogs) died age 49. Mick was an amazing builder, never advertised and never short of work. We built a house together, ran a business together buying terraced houses and refurbishing them. We did well until, Mick decided to buy, with a loan, a JCB (bloody big digger, £26,000). I was presented with a personal guarantee to sign. I refused and the business relationship ended the same day. Six months later it was sold at a huge loss. We still worked together for many year’s but the spark had gone. Five years ago, just after meeting Sheila, I went to the Canaries with my dad and brothers. I wasn’t goo

A friend in need is a friend indeed. A friend with weed is better.   Monday 20th July, doctor’s surgery 0940.    If you missed part 3 click here . ‘Colin Lambert for Dr Middle’ comes over the speaker. I am greeted by Charlie in a space suite. I close my eyes, biting hard on my face mask as the first of two cortisone injections goes in. Shoulder first, knee second. This is magic stuff, taken many times in my rugby days and now its job is to get me walking and moving again. Two days to start and three weeks to dancing again, I hope. Only three pints yesterday, so mood is brighter. My phone rings. ‘Yo Lambo, it’s James [name changed] how you doing? ‘I’m good thank you, (I lied) how are you?’ I’m good thank you (he lied). James is an old mate, more of an acquaintance than friend, who works a full-time yacht skipper. My first Atlantic crossing, on a client’s boat, had James as skipper. My lasting memory of the trip is James surfing down waves, one hand on the wheel, Vodka & Marlborough

1430 September 10th 2020. Richmond London. Sat on the balcony. Sheila's third floor flat (more shortly) has a balcony, small but enough for table and chairs. I installed decking two years ago which makes the edge more of a parapet wall (not very high) than a proper one. I have suffered from vertigo for many years. In Part 2, (click here if you missed it) I talk of my breakdown starting at Xmas in Cornwall. We walked along the South West coast path, guilt surging and a just pregnant wife. As we had to cross a ledge my vertigo took over, jump over, no turn to jelly and slide over, worse still take your wife with you.  I rushed away from the edge and suggested we went back. I once tried to walk across the Golden gate bridge only to have the same experience at another time of stress. I don’t (and love skiing) do ledges. 1500 September 10th, sat on balcony. Panic slowly sets in, I’m going over. ‘no, you’re not, don’t be silly’. Yes I can feel it, I’m going over….. This continued until

The panic attacks turned to obsessive thoughts. Lambo couldn't stop recounting all the things he got wrong before his wife died. Letting her fall out of the bed as he was too busy writing his bog a good example, he kept blaming himself and sobbing. I reminded him of his history of anxiety attacks, hoping it would help. The panic attacks were just the beginning. It really started aged 8, when my sister was born but sent sky when abused by the baby-sitter. If you missed Part 1, just click here. My sexuality being aroused had the additional problem of introducing me to a world of panic attacks . I was afraid to walk past the senior school in case she saw me. I literally shook with fear, I was scared to tell anyone as it was clearly my fault (amazing how we blame ourselves as children) and the first person I ever told was my wife, Kerry, some fifteen years later. I can still feel the fear typing this. It started another problem. I was told masturbation was dirty and sent you blind. Rub

Lambo is my Alter Ego, my twin and my Viking energy.  When not driving me insane, he is lovable and fun.  He is very depressed at the moment, and avoiding his shit. I think a problem shared is a problem halved. First, tell the truth, be honest with yourself and say it how it was. Here goes... Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, totally crashed and smashed. My wife died six months ago, shock, anger acceptance is needed. Men work and find other distractions to avoid their shit...  It had been going so well, full on building works, 240 railway sleepers, two retaining walls, three new levels and two bed static for guests to stay and visit Sheila’s gallery and ashes. Full on 0800 till dark. Lambo’s shoulder was very sore but rest of body good. I have a trust old (31 years) yacht Frangi (Hallberg Rassey 49) last visited with Sheila in September, Portland Marina, just over an hour south of Sherborne Dorset. Its late June and decision made to sell her. Off I go to meet the agent. Me, Colin being practical