Reborn in the Nick of Time

The period embracing the autumn of 1992 and the first few weeks of winter may well have been the most debauched of David's entire existence.
He'd get up early, possibly about six, and then prepare himself for the day ahead with a bottle of wine, usually fortified, then he'd keep his units topped up throughout the day with vodka or gin, taking regular swigs from the miniatures he liked to have with him at all times. Some evenings he'd spend in central London, others with his new friends from the college, and they were a close and pretty wild crowd for a while. There were times in town when he couldn't keep the booze down, so he'd order a king-sized cola from MacDonalds, which he'd then lace with spirits before cautiously sipping from it through a straw.

He was a euphoric drunk and so almost never unpleasant...but he was unpredictable...a true Dionysian who'd cry out on a British Rail train in the middle of the afternoon, causing passengers to flinch with alarm...or perform a wild disjointed Karate kick into thin air on a crowded London street. One afternoon he tore his clothes to shreds after having arrived too late for an audition and a barman who served him later on in the day asked him:
"You bin in a fight then?"

And then there was the shameful night at Waterloo station - or was it Liverpool Street? - that he was so incapacitated by drink that he had to be escorted across the main concourse to his train by one of a colony of rough sleepers that were a feature of mainline stations in those days.
However, all these insane incidents came to a head one night in early 1993 in an Indian restaurant in Hampton Court close to the Surrey-London border. He'd been dining there with two female friends when, suddenly feeling like pure death, he turned to the lady who was next to him and asked:

"Do I look as bad as I feel?"

As soon as she'd told him that indeed he did, he got up from the table, walked a few paces and then collapsed as if stone dead in the middle of the restaurant. He was then carried bodily out into the fresh night air by two or three Indian waiters, one of whom set about shocking some life back into him by flicking ice cold water in his face.

"Don't give up," he pleaded, his voice betraying true concern...and in time thanks to him some semblance of life returned, and David was well enough to be driven home.
Yet, within two days he was drinking as heavily as before, continuing to do so virtually around the clock until the weekend. He then spent Saturday evening with his close friend from the restaurant, and at some point in the morning of the 16^th, after having drunk solidly all night, he asked her to fill a long glass with neat gin and each sip took him further and further into the desired state of blissful forgetfulness.
He awoke exhilarated, which was normal for him following a lengthy binge. It was his one drying out day of the week, and so he probably spent it writing as well as cleaning up the accumulated chaos of the past week. One thing he definitely did was listen to a radio documentary on the legendary L.A. Rock band the Doors which he'd taped some weeks or perhaps months earlier.

He especially savoured "When the Music's Over" from what was then one of his favourite albums, "Strange Days" released in the wake of the Summer of Love on my 12th birthday, 7 October 1967. This apocalyptic epic with its unearthly screams and ecstatically discordant guitar solo seemed to him about living in the shadow of death, beckoning death, mocking death, defying death.
He powerfully identified with the Doors' gifted singer Jim Morrison...who'd been drawn as a very young man to poets of darkly prophetic intensity, such as Blake, Nietzsche, Rimbaud, Artaud, as well as the poets of the Beat Generation, who were themselves children of the - largely French - Romantic poètes maudits, whose works have the power to change lives, as they surely did Morrison's.

His philosophy of life was clearly informed by Blake, who wrote of "the road of excess" leading to "the palace of wisdom", while his hell raising persona came to a degree from Rimbaud, who extolled the virtues of "a long, immense and systematic derangement of all the senses" as an angel-faced hooligan in the Paris of the early 1870s.

What a price he paid though...dead at just 27...like Jones, Hendrix and Joplin before him, and so the '60s dream was revealed as the beguiling chimera it had been all along.
After having spent the day revelling in his own inane notion of himself as a poet on the edge like my heroes, at some point in the early evening he got what he'd been courting for so long...an intimation of early death, when for pretty well the first time in his life alcohol stopped being his beloved elixir and became a mortal enemy, causing his legs to lose sensation and his life force to recede at a furious and terrifying rate.

In a blind panic, he opened a spare bottle of sparkling wine he had about the house even though he'd hoped not to have to drink that day. Once he'd drained it, he felt better for a while, in fact so much so that he took a few snaps of myself lounging around looking haggard and unshaven, with freshly cropped hair.
Soon after this macabre photo session he set off in search of more alcohol. Arriving at a local delicatessen, the Asian shop keeper nervously told him that the off-license wasn't open for some time yet. There was nothing for him to do but take refuge on a nearby green, where he lay for a while, still dressed in the shabby white cut-offs he'd been wearing earlier. Finally, the offie opened and he was able to buy more booze.

In years to come, one of the last things he remembered doing on Sunday evening was singing hymns in a nearby Methodist church as the tears flowed...tears of remorse, tears of fear, tears of desperation.

He had no further memory of what happened that hellish night, but there were many such nights ahead. At least one of these saw him endlessly pacing up and down corridors and stairs in an attempt to stay conscious and so - as he came to see it - not die...and each time he shut his eyes he could have sworn he saw demonic entities beckoning him into a bottomless black abyss.

He set about ridding his house of artefacts he somehow knew to be offensive from the night of the 16th or 17th onwards. Many books were destroyed...books on astrology and numerology and other mystical and occult subjects, books on war and crime and atrocity, and books about artists some call accursed for their kinship with drunkenness and madness and death.
He genuinely came to believe that for all the horrors he underwent, it was during that first night he came to accept Christ as his Saviour, and that had his violent conversion not come about when it did, he might have been lost forever, although whether one agrees with him or not depends on where one stands on the issue of predestination versus free will.

But he'd have surely immersed himself further in the new Bohemianism of the 1990s, which of course was not new at all, simply a revival of the adversary values of the sixties. Far from vanishing around '73, these values had merely gone back underground, where they set about fertilising new anti-establishment clans such as the Anarcho-Punks and the New Age Travellers who quietly flourished throughout the '80s.

Around '92, some kind of amalgam between these tribes and the growing Rave-Dance movement produced yet another great counterculture, and he was ready...ready as he'd never been before to take his place as a zealot of the New Edge, only to be delivered from its seductive grasp by a violent "Road to Damascus" conversion to Christianity.

However, if he'd been reborn against all the odds, he still had to suffer in the physical, if only briefly.

On the morning of the 17th of January, he somehow made it into New Eltham that for classes at the University, but by evening he felt so ill he started swigging from a litre bottle of gin in the hope this would improve his condition. He also phoned Alcoholics Anonymous at his mother's request, and agreed to give a meeting a shot.

Next day, on the way to Richmond College, he got the feeling that his heart was about to explode, not just once but over and over again. Then, after that morning's classes, he tried walking through Twickenham but couldn't feel his legs, and was struggling to stay conscious, so he ended up ordering a double brandy from the pub next door to the Police Station. He was shaking so much the landlord thought he was fresh from an interrogation session.

Later, he was thrown out of another pub for preaching at the top of his voice, and, walking through Twickenham town centre he started making the sign of the cross to passers-by, telling one poor young guy never to take to drink like some kind of walking advert for temperance. The fellow nodded in assent before silently scurrying away.
Back home, in an effort to calm himself down, he dug out an old capsule of Chlomethiazole, a sedative commonly used in treating and controlling the effects of acute alcohol withdrawal, but dangerous, in fact potentially fatal, when used in conjunction with alcohol. He still had some capsules left over from about 1990 when he'd been prescribed them by his then doctor, which meant they'd long gone beyond their expiry date. For a time he felt better and was able to sleep, but soon after waking, felt worse than ever.

Later, at an AA meeting, he kept leaving the room to douse his head in cold water, anything to shock some life back into me, to the dismay of his sponsor Dan who wanted him to stay put, for the purported healing effects of doing so:

"What do you think I come here for," he asked him, "the free cups of tea?"

Wednesday morning saw him pacing the office of the first available doctor, who seemed at a loss as to what to do with him, but then it may have been touch and go as to whether he was going to stay on his feet or overdose on the spot and die on him. It was he who prescribed him the Valium which caused him to fall into a deep, deep sleep which may have saved his life, and from which he awoke to sense that a frontier had been passed and that he was out of danger at long last.

He struggled on with the PGCE, partly at the University of Greenwich, and partly at Richmond College, Twickenham, while rehearsing for a couple of tiny parts for a play based on the life of James Joyce's troubled, fascinating daughter the dancer Lucia Joyce, which premiered at the Lyric Studio, Hammersmith on the 4th of February 1993.

He also attended occasional drugs and alcohol counselling sessions at a church in Greenwich, south east London with Eileen, a lovely blonde woman of about 45 with a soft and soothing London accent and the gentlest pale blue eyes imaginable. The only time he ever knew her to lose her composure was when he announced over the phone that a matter of hours after deciding of his own volition to stop taking Diazepam, he'd reverted to Chlomethiazole:

"Why'd you do that?" She unceremoniously asked.

However, enough time had passed between his taking the capsule and calling Ellen for me to be out of any danger, and she literally laughed with relief at the realisation.
Then, a matter of days after coming to Christ, he received a phone call from a counsellor for an organisation called Contact for Christ based in Selsdon, South London by the name of Denver Cashe. Perhaps he'd half-heartedly filled in a form of theirs the previous summer while filled with alcoholic anticipation as he slowly approached Waterloo station by British Rail train with the sun setting over the foreboding south London cityscape.

Typically, he tried to put the caller off, but as he was persistent, and so before he knew it the aforesaid Denver Cashe was at the door of his parents' house, a trim, dark, handsome man in late middle age with gently piercing coffee coloured eyes and a luxuriant white moustache; and at his insistence they prayed together.
Some time later David visited him and his wife Rose at his large and elegant house where suburb meets country just beyond the Greater London border. On that day, David and he made an extensive list of aspects of his pre-Christian life requiring deep repentance, and they prayed over each of these in turn.

In addition, they discussed which church he should be attending, and there was some talk of his joining Denver and Rose at their little family fellowship in the suburbs, but in the end, Denver gave his blessing to Cornerstone Bible Church, a large fellowship affiliated to the controversial Word of Faith Movement based in the prosperous London suburb of Esher in Surrey, where David would soon be baptised by its pastor.
David had attended his very first service there even before becoming a Christian in late 1992. Drunk at the time, he'd sat next to a beautiful blonde woman of about 55 whom he later discovered to be a successful actress. Apart from an elder from the Jesus Fellowship, who'd laid hands on him at a meeting of theirs in central London, she was his very first Christian mentor. However, he was never to see or speak to her again as he didn't return to the church for several months, and by the time he did as a new believer, she'd moved to another church. Then they kept on missing each other, and she died in 2001. But David never forgot her.

In the early part of '94, David set out on the final phase of the PGCE (FE) at the University of Greenwich in New Eltham, South East London, although he was ultimately to fail the course as a whole.

To their credit, his tutors at Greenwich did offer him the opportunity of retaking just the Teaching Practice component, but he chose to turn them down, and if he was depressed, it wasn't for long because in September, he successfully auditioned for the lead role of Roote in Harold Pinter's little known "The Hothouse" for a newly formed fringe theatre group called Grip based at the Rose and Crown pub in Kingston, a large suburban area to the south of London.

Written in 1958, "The Hothouse" is eminently Pinteresque, with its almost high poetic verbal virtuosity and inventiveness and dark surreal humour laced with a constant sense of impending violence, although it wasn't performed until 1980, when it was directed by Pinter himself for London's Hampstead and Ambassador Theatres.
From the auditions onwards, David gelled with the American director Ben Evans.

While most of the auditions he'd attended up to this point had hinged on the time-honoured method of the actor performing a piece from memory before a panel of interviewers, Ben insisted his candidates read from the play in small groups, which enabled them to attain a basic feel for their characters and so feel like they were actually acting rather than coldly reciting. For David, this was the only way to audition.
Once David had been told the part of Roote was his, he devoted himself to Ben's vision of Roote, the pompous yet deranged director of an unnamed English psychiatric hospital: the Hothouse of the title. Ben demanded of him an interpretation of Roote which was deeply at odds with his usual highly Method-oriented, subtle, intense, introspective and yet somehow also emotionally vehement approach to acting, but Ben's directorial instincts were spot-on, as his production went on to receive spectacular reviews not just in the local press, but the international listings magazine, "Time Out", in which David's performance was described as "flawlessly accurate" and "lit by flashes of black humour". An amazing triumph for a humble fringe show.
A major agent went out of her way to express her interest in David, and asked him to ensure his details reach her which he did...but he never heard from her again, possibly due to the shabby condition of his CV at the time; and he didn't pursue the matter further, which says a lot about his attitude to the push that is essential to success within the acting profession; more so perhaps even than talent.

In his defence one could say that since his recent conversion his priorities had shifted so that he viewed worldly success with less relish than he'd done only a few years before. Also, he badly missed the relaxation alcohol once provided him with following my work onstage; as well as the revels extending deep into the night during which he'd throw his youth and affections about me like some kind of maniacal gambler. So, while he still loved acting itself, the process of being an actor had become pure torture.

He'd boxed myself into the position of no longer being able to enjoy social situations as others do, nor to relax. This may have had something to do with the state of his endorphins, the body's natural feel-good chemicals, and a theory exists to the effect that these can be permanently depleted by long-term abuse of alcohol and other narcotics.
To further complicate matters, towards the end of '94, he started suffering from deep tormenting spiritual problems for which he'd ultimately seek a solution in the shape of what is known as Deliverance Ministry.
Within a short time of "The Hothouse" reaching the end of its two week run, Grip's artistic director asked him if he'd like to audition for his upcoming production of Jim Cartwright's two-handed play, "Two". Naturally he said yes and so after a successful audition, found myself playing all the male characters opposite character actress Jean from Liverpool, who played all the female.

By the end of the run the houses were so packed that people were sitting on the side of the stage at the actors' feet, something David had never experienced before on the London fringe. Yet, he dreaded the end of each performance, which would see him make his excuses as soon as it was possible to do so without causing undue offence.
Release from a torturous dungeon of sobriety came while he was attending some unrelated function at the Rose and Crown a day or so following his final performance in "Two", when a guy he'd only just met offered to buy him a drink and I asked for a glass of wine. Apart from the time at his parents' house a few weeks earlier when he took a swig of what he thought was water but which turned out to be vodka or gin, this was the first alcohol to pass his lips since January '93.
This single glass of wine made him feel amazing, doubly so given the purity of his system. He cycled home that night in a state of total rapture, feeling for the first time in months that he could do anything. Over the next few week his drinking increased, reaching a climax in a pub in Twickenham where he met an old university friend who'd just finished a course at St Mary's University College in nearby Strawberry Hill, and where he drank and smoked himself into a stupor.
Cycling home afterwards, he took a bend near Hampton Wick and came off his bike, striking his head against a bus shelter. He stayed flat on his back for a while, abject and stinking of drink. He could have sworn he saw a shadowy figure running towards me as he lay there in the dark, but before long he was shakily resuming his journey home. However, weeks of controlled drinking and one massive binge, possibly combined with the ill effects of a violent blow to the head, resulted in his becoming ill and virtually incapacitated for what might have been as long as a fortnight. Time and again during this awful period he'd awake from a feverish semi-sleep, dizzy, faint and nauseous, with his face a deathly yellowy pale, but each time a single further second of consciousness seemed beyond him, it was as if God breathed life back into him and the terror of dying subsided. All he could do was lie around, waiting, praying for a return to normality...and when this came, he determined never to drink again as long as he lived. But we swiftly forget our sojourns in Hell...

A few months after appearing in Jim Cartwright's bitter-sweet two-hander "Two", David performed in one final play at the Rose and Crown theatre, the character-driven comedy "Lovelives". Written entirely by the cast, it consisted of a series of sketches centring on the disastrous antics of a group of singletons who'd come together at a lonely hearts club in the suburbs. Perhaps then it chimed perfectly with the spirit of British post-war comedy and its characteristic celebration of banality and even failure.
Later in '95, he played two small roles in a production at the Tristan Bates theatre near Leicester Square of the famous Greek tragedy "Iphigeneia in Taurois", written by Euripides somewhere between 414 and 412 BC, these being Pylades, constant companion of the main character Orestes, and the Messenger, whom he played as a maniacal fool with the kind of "refined" English accent once supposedly affected by policemen and non-commissioned officers. Directed by a close friend of his, the houses were sparse at first, picking up towards the end of the run.
A few months later in January '96, he joined a Christian theatre company based at the Elim Pentecostal church in West Croydon, Surrey called Street Level, going on to serve variously as MC, script writer, actor, singer and musician with two other members, married company leader Serena, and 19 year old Rebecca from nearby Sanderstead. Together, they toured a series of shows around schools in various - usually tough - multicultural areas of South East London, and on the whole, were greeted by the kids with an almost uniform affection, and there was an incredible chemistry between Serena, Rebecca and himself...and then things started to go wrong.
Towards the end of the summer, Serena asked David to write a large scale project for the group, suggesting a contemporary version of John Bunyan's classic Christian allegory "The Pilgrim's Progress":
"I'll put your name in lights," she promised him.

This he set about doing, and after some weeks of labouring over what turned out to be an unwieldy and often violent epic punctuated by scenes of dark humour that occasionally verged on the Rabelaisian, he started to have second thoughts about carrying on with Street Level.

The play, "Paul Grim's Progress", had left him in poor shape spiritually, and he didn't fancy too many more of the long and costly train journeys that were necessary to get him to Croydon and back, and so began to withdraw.
By the time of his final exit from Street Level, he'd long defected from Cornerstone to the Thames Vineyard Christian Fellowship, part of the Association of Vineyard Churches founded by John Wimber in the 1970s. This was as a result of being told by a phone friend that the Vineyard movement contained members whose spiritual gifts were in the realm of the truly exceptional. His curiosity aroused, he went along one Sunday evening and had a powerful experience which made me want to stay; and so he did.
As with Cornerstone he joined a Home Fellowship group where he completed part of the Alpha course, which had been pioneered by Nicky Gumbel of West London's famous Holy Trinity Brompton.

He visited HTB at some point in the mid '90s, when it was at the height of the revival movement known as the Toronto Blessing. This was so called because it had been ignited in January 1994 at the Toronto Airport Vineyard Church by St. Louis Vineyard pastor Randy Clark. Clark had himself received it from South African evangelist Rodney Howard Brown during a service at Rhema Bible Church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, then pastored by Kenneth Hagin Jr., father of the Word-Faith movement, one of the major strains of Charismatic Christianity, with a controversial emphasis on "Positive Confession".
The Anointing spread to the UK in the summer of 1994 where it was eventually dubbed The Toronto Blessing by The Daily Telegraph. Its main centres included HTB, Terry Virgo's New Frontiers family of churches and Gerald Coates' Pioneer People.

Pioneer's centre at the time was a cinema in the Surrey suburb of Esher, which David visited a couple of times, when it was so packed he was forced to stand all throughout the service, a situation which was duplicated when he dropped in at the London HQ of the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God one afternoon around about the same time.

Like many Charismatic churches, UCKG upholds the Fivefold ministry, and so believes that the five gifts referred to in Ephesians 4:11, namely Apostle, Prophet, Evangelist, Pastor and Teacher, are still in operation.
David's last hurrah as an actor came in the spring of '98, when he started rehearsing for a production of Shakespeare's infamous Scottish Play, to be staged at Fulham's Lost Theatre in the summer...and despite the fact that his three cameos - as Lennox, the Doctor, and an Old Man - were praised by cast and audience members alike, it remains his final acting performance. Quite simply, the passion to perform in front of a live audience that raged within him like a forest fire for more than two decades had long been extinguished by then, or rather turned to dread.
A few months later and the troubled, turbulent 20th Century gave way to the 21st to the sound of fireworks frantically exploding all throughout David's neighbourhood of the Hurst Park Estate, West Molesey, where he'd moved in January 1997.
Phoning his father that night to wish him a happy new year he discovered that his mother was desperately ill with flu:
"Some start to the millennium," he grimly told his dad.

It went on to occur to him that she'd become susceptible to the flu virus partly as a result of stress caused by his recent departure from yet another course; this time an MA in French and Theory of Literature from University College, London, which was one of the most prestigious of its kind in the world. In time though, her incredible Scots-Irish constitution saw her through to a complete recovery.
He'd found the course magnetically compelling on an intellectual level, despite an awareness that writing extensively about Literary Theory might come increasingly to disturb him, and perhaps even challenge his faith, given its emphasis on what is known as Deconstruction, a term coined by French philosopher Jacques Derrida. He withdrew on the advice of several spiritual advisers, but it was a decision that would haunt him for the next ten years of his life.
Subsequent to making it, he started playing guitar for Liberty Christian Centre, a satellite church of London's Kensington Temple, a large Elim Pentecostal church pastored by Colin Dye based in Notting Hill, West London Then, shortly after agreeing to be Liberty's lone musician, he quit his position as a telephone canvasser for an e-commerce company based in Surbiton, Surrey, thus bringing a fairly lengthy period spent as an office worker to an end.
A real change in his professional fortunes came around Christmastime when he was made lead singer for Django, a Jazz band formed by Bruce LaGuard, an old friend of his father's, and which was complemented at various times by his dad, a double bass player, a brace of drummers, and David. They went on to cut several very fine demos arranged by Bruce, but these didn't result in the interest they deserved, given the talent involved.
In early '01, Liberty's Pastor Phil decided to dissolve the church, so David made yet another return to Cornerstone, while in the summer of that year, in the wake of the 2002 Shelton Arts Festival, Django disbanded, which was a real shame because they'd finally found the audience they'd been searching for all along at the festival, evidenced by the passion with which their first performance there was greeted.

The day after their final show, David started working from home making appointments for a travelling salesman, and was briefly very successful at it, until things started tailing off in the autumn and he was let go. By this time he'd effectively left Cornerstone for good, although he was to make many subsequent sporadic returns.

This sudden exit came in consequence of a desire born of intensive internet research to seek out churches existing beyond the Pentecostal/Charismatic fold, these being Cessationist, which is to say they don't accept that the more spectacular Gifts of the Holy Spirit such as Tongues and Prophecy are still in operation. Up until then, any church that didn't encourage the speaking in other tongues David had refused to accept as being truly Christian.
Before '03, which was his year of relentless internet research, he'd known next to nothing about the finer points of his faith, although he was fairly well versed in the subject of prophecy thanks to having been introduced to this early in my Christian life by Denver and Rose, through various magazines and books such as "Prophecy Today" and the works of Barry R Smith.

He had no clue as to the meaning of Calvinism or Arminianism, Predestination or Foreknowledge, Cessationism or Continuationism and so on...but he didn't believe that made an iota of difference to the condition of his soul, as people - as he saw it - are saved by faith alone, with true saving faith producing the fruits of repentance.

In a general sense the year 2000 turned out to be something of a turning point for David, not just spiritually, but in terms of his entire personality, which became more inward looking, even by the standards of the previous seven years.

Significantly perhaps, the previous year had been the first since he was about 17 that he faced the world with his hair its natural medium brown after having dyed it for nearly three decades. What prompted this was not a sudden loathing for the vanity of the bottle blond, but the fact that the peroxide-based streaking kits he favoured were causing him to have breathing difficulties.

At first, he missed being blond, but in time he came to prefer his natural colour after years of youthful blond androgyny. The fact is that throughout his twenties and for much of his thirties, he had remained in a state of extended adolescence, blond being after all the natural colour of eternal youth.
In his time, David had elicited a lot of admiration for attempting to take the romantic bohemian rebel existence to its logical conclusion when all around him were conforming at a furious rate, but the price for having done so was high, cruelly high in terms of social and financial humiliation, leading David to become a veritable Jeremiah, in terms of his opposition to a lifestyle he blamed for ruing his life.

Yet, young people in the 2000s worshipped at the altar of romantic rebellion as much as they'd always done...but perhaps not to quite the same degree as those of David's poor generation, who came to maturity to a frenetic Rock soundtrack; and who can say what effect it had on them, this music...tailor-made to inspire a generation scornful of deferred gratification, a generation of hipsters.
To the David of the Christian years, Rock - far from being just another music form - was a total art, involving poetry, theatre, fashion, but even more than that...a way of life with a strong spiritual foundation.

He fell under the influence of various Fundamentalist Christian critics of Rock music for a brief period in 2003, which made him feel inclined to destroy all traces of Rock music in my possession, even though he'd long lost any real taste for Hard Rock by then. However, by the summer, his attitude had mellowed to the extent that he was prepared to write about an hour's worth of Rock songs in response to a request from his dad for songs for a possible collaboration with the son of a close friend. But these were as far from Hard Rock as it's possible to be, being influenced by such relatively benign and melodic genres as Folk, Pop and Soul.
These songs, some new, some upgrades of old tunes, were recorded on a Sony CFS-B21L cassette-corder, and were generally well-received despite having been so crudely recorded. His father even went so far as to suggest that he record them properly in a studio, and so some months after recording them, a semi-professional demo was recorded on a friend's computer, but when David sent this to a music publishing company for assessment, their response was far from encouraging.

It was back to the drawing board for Bjorn-David Crisrtiansen.

As if disillusioned by constant failure, David decided he wanted to write creatively as of January 2006, although the real motive for his doing so was altogether different. In fact, it was a period of sickness that spurred him towards a serious literary career.

This began with a panic attack in central London, which grew into a flu-like illness, but it wasn't until he developed a painful condition affecting a singularly delicate section of his tegument that he decided that he'd no further interest in maintaining optimal physical attractiveness, and so felt he had little to lose by writing.

The truth is that soon after becoming a Christian, David had destroyed most of what he'd written up to that point, and then wrote quite happily for a time as a Christian, until it seemed to him as if God was calling a halt to his writing. So, once again, he started destroying any writings he managed to finish...sometimes dumping whole manuscripts into handy dustbins, or dispensing with them one sheet at a time down murky London drains.

Then in about 1998, he more or less gave up altogether...that is, until he felt compelled to break his literary silence as a result of the aforesaid extended bout of sickness. Thence, he started posting articles to the Blogster web site, which went on to form the basis of his memoir, "Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child".

In terms of activities of note in the following year of '07, he rehearsed an album of popular standards with his father which was finally released in the spring of 2008, although it only went on to sell a handful of copies, the majority remaining firmly ensconced in the box in which they'd arrived from the recording studio, where it had been recorded at Pat Cristiansen's expense.

Later that year, he completed a first draft of his memoir after a full two years of labour.

Around about the same time, his beloved former mentor Dr Elizabeth Lang died in her adopted village of Woodstock, Oxfordshire. The executor of her will, who was also the publisher of her final book, asked him to read one of the lessons at her funeral and deliver a eulogy in the capacity of a former student. This took place in the parish church of St Martin's in the beautiful village of Bladon, where Winston Churchill is buried, along with fellow members of the Malborough family.

It was such a sad experience for him to be reunited with Elizabeth in such a way after nearly a quarter of a century, while being unable to communicate with her as he'd have been able to had he thought to make contact...even a handful of years earlier when she was still a published writer. It made him realise how important it is to stay close to friends and family before a time comes when it's no longer possible to reconcile with them:
"Then it's too late," he thought to himself, " they've gone, and the world is always so much the poorer for their sudden absence and silence."

Epilogue:

It was in the summer of 2010 that David decided to turn his memoir into a novel, or rather roman a clef, keeping most of the names as they'd been in the memoir, in which original names of persons had been changed as a means of preserving their privacy: his own name he changed from Carl Halling to Bjorn-David Cristiansen. Moreover, dialogue was approximate as he - or rather I - remembered it. It also served as a testimony, which is now at an end.