The darkest hour is just before dawn

Back in 1986, I'd just moved out of home into a pokey bedroom in a shared house on Bishopthorpe Road in York. My wings had already been exercised a couple of times in preparation for leaving home. When I was eleven, I'd deliberately missed the school bus one morning and turned round and went back home. Once there, I retrieved the rucksack I'd packed the night before, checked all of the essentials were in there; sleeping bag, pocket money, sheath-knife, and got changed.

Now dressed and having draped my school tie over a dining room chair as a reminder that I'd once been a member of the family, I locked the door and set off.

Most of you are going to be thinking "where?" "where does an eleven year old boy run away from home to?". Don't get me wrong, there are enough sad and tragic cases of kids who have no love in their lives. Whose childhoods are blighted by illness or disability or an uncaring society. But I wasn't one of those. I was a slightly spoiled eleven year old whose brother knew more ways to wind him up than was good for an eight year old. I told myself, it was either running away or fratricide. It had come to that.

So for the past week I'd been concocting a plan. I'd leave home as normal, head for the school bus, wait long enough for my parents to go to work before enacting my scheme. I made it all the way, by mixture of hitching and bus, to my Nan and Pop's house in Durham. And, it was a good 5 or 6 hours before my dad came to pick me up. That was a pretty grim drive back, I can tell you. Maybe I'll write more about this another time.

The second break for freedom came when I was 16. A particularly adolescent-sided argument with my mother ended with the words "that's it, I'm leaving". To which my mother replied that I shouldn't let the closing door hit me too hard on the way out. With no other way to save face, I stormed upstairs, packed a bag and booked myself into a B&B on the very same Bishopthorpe Road. Why? Well, I had my freedom, didn't I. I was on my own, out to make my way in the big, wide world. And where better to start than two miles from home in a bed and breakfast.

We had no internet in those days. We did have phones, but it didn't cross my mind to call a few places and find out how much B&B's cost. I just picked the nicest looking one and checked in. These days you have to show ID and sign registers. Back then, I handed over some cash to a small, grandmotherly type and in return I got a key. When I looked at the remnants of my wallet, I realised I'd probably got a maximum of 4 or 5 days living in this sort of luxury. The world turned and I returned to the family home. The pretext was that I'd forgotten underwear, but I think we all knew that that was as close as anyone was going to get to an I'm sorry. That came later.

So, 1986 and here I am. With my dad's help, I'm moved into a box room just outside York's Roman wall. I have a job, trainee manager in a bingo hall, and I have a place all of my own. What I don't have is any experience. I've always been adaptable and am pretty resourceful when push comes to shove, but that morning, when the electricity ran out and I didn't have 50p for the electricity meter and the small room heater that it powered, I understood one version of this blog's title.

Why mention all of this now? well, here I am nearly thirty years later and it's 5 am on a Thursday. I'm living in Indonesia, my wife is lying next to me and I'm sweating like a pig on a spit. Yep, the electricity has gone off and the meter needs feeding. Where's my wallet and torch.....