Near Death Experience part 7

This was supposed to be an explanation of what led up to my nearly killing myself but has drifted off in to autobiographical extension to the series of posts from September 2012 titled "How did I get here?". I stopped that story at the point where the hard drugs came in for fear clients would never want me to work for them again. Yet is there any point in writing a autobiographical lie? I'm not proud of the drugs and have given lectures in schools to children telling them parts of my life story in the hope that they would avoid hard drugs. And if a client took my life story as a reason to not commission me then I'm not sure I'd want them for a client. I have never stolen, never missed work in favour of getting off my head. I work as hard as anyone, much harder than most. A Protestant work ethic was drilled in to me by my father. 'The world doesn't owe you a living'. Was his mantra. Get on your bike. He was of the Norman the bit school of thought. Though he did play hard too. They say an appetite for innebriation is genetic and this is without doubt true. His antics are legendary. One day I will tell his story. After my mother died he wasn't a great father though. His heart was broken. They didn't have depression back in those days just spit, grit and alcohol. He had risen from working class roots through that system they used to have where five of the brightest Boys from the city poor could join the posh kids and get a decent education . He succeeded in courting a middle class woman and married my mother to the horror of her middle class parents. He bought a house in alwoodley, the posh bit of north leeds and my childhood was great until my mother got cancer and died living my dad with three kids. He couldn't cope. He was in a neighbourhood away from all he grew up with so sort solace in alcohol. I seldom saw him from my mothers death when I was 12 though I'd seen little of him since she'd entered hospital when I was 9. Ultimately he returned to his working class community. You can learn their manners but you'll never truly find acceptance. We brought ourselves up. He provided food and was a great father when my mother was alive teaching my wildlife and woodwork. My brother is a doctor and works in butterfly conservation. His shed building projects must be the seed of my working choice. Each weekend he would take us out to the countryside, "come wind, come, snow, come hail, come blow" and take us fishing or bird spotting. Butterfly collecting and birds egg collecting. Crimes now but all part of natural history education back then. And to Headingley to watch the greatest sport of all, rugby league, and the greatest team of all Leeds RL, now Leeds Rhinos. Before my mothers death he instilled a foundation that has seen me through and though his breakdown in to alcohol echoes in my own life he is still a highly intelligent man. Our politics may differ, his based on a Darwinian survival of the fittest, mine more compassionate, bring along our weak and weird. But I do love him, despite our fall outs in the past. One time Andy lees dad rang me whilst out drinking with his son and asked, "wow, are you Eddy Wainwright son?, he were a legend to us, a bloody legend."