Titanic for the Titans emerges from the darkside of Kogarah (750 OWC including the title between the dotted lines).
......................................................................................................................
A coach's dilemma
I am fed up with my million dollar existence. Really, I am. The public spotlight is just too much. I really cannot take any more of the ridicule.
Eons ago it seems, I could play well… really well. Country boy makes good. Strong of body and clear of mind – the whole rugby league world had given itself up and I was the conqueror. Now, however, my pitifully pampered living, eked out as an NRL coach, could hardly be called “life”. No, even death must be better than this, and now, I’m going to make that better choice. I’m choosing death.
I grasp my only straight-edged razor, shelved for years in favour of my deluxe Braun Series 7.760cc electric foil shaver. Slowly I lower it towards my wrist, the silver blade glinting in the dim light of my palatial Grecian terracotta-tiled bathroom. I run my hands up and down the blunt edge, almost caressing it. This is my first class ticket to happiness, my way out of a life full of gilded misery and grief. I’ll surely go to a place where nobody cares if I have a few too many beers like “normal” people or that the team's playing far below expectations.
Suddenly, a thought occurs to me. I haven’t paid my phone bill. The account will be cut if I don’t pay it by tomorrow. I get up, and almost drop the "shank" as I begin to look for the keys to my BMW X5. I’m searching for the reminder notice when something else occurs to me.
Why would I need a connected Nokia E75 touch pad, qwerty keyboard mobile phone if I am dead? Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I return to my seat beside the imported French glazed window and reposition the blade on my wrist.
As I raise the razor slightly to make the incision, I notice my veins. Funny, I’ve never paid any attention to them before, but now, they look so… defenceless. Yes, they seem fragile. Tiny blue lines that criss-cross, stark against my pale, almost white under-wrist skin. They are throbbing too, ever so softly in concert with my Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. I run my hands over the skin covering them, surprised at how I don’t feel anything. I was sure I would feel pain if I touched them.
"Concentrate," I berate myself sternly and turn back to the task at hand. My suicide: the swift and hopefully not too painful termination of my pointless being. It’s getting dark, I must do it before long if I don’t want anyone from the club or even worse the media to knock or phone and disturb me. As I press the mesmerising blade to my wrist, right on those delicate veins, another thought occurs.
When I cut myself, I’m sure to make a mess, and I certainly don’t want to stain the hand sewn Italian lace covers on this antique Chippendale window seat, with its carved and pierced sprats in eluding rococo C-scrolls. I’m rather fond of this seat, and I really don’t want its regal bearing to be marred with great, dark splotches of my rather less than blue blood.
I bring out an armful of Sheridan towels from my designer bedroom and spread them across the seat, making sure that there’s a thick layer, sufficient to staunch the flow of blood, and sit back down to cut myself.
I draw the blade over my wrist, and pull it, but nothing happens. A very small cut is made, but that is all. The blade’s too blunt to work properly. I sigh and head to the kitchen, to find a better knife.
Entering the kitchen, I see Puddles, my Persian pedigreed cat waiting there to be fed. Feeling slightly guilty for delaying her dinner, I quickly prepare her meal and then rummage around for a sharper knife so I can cut myself.
None of the gleaming Solingen steel knives I possess seem good enough; I’ll have to buy a new one. I select my North Peak coat, look out the window and over the manicured lawn... it's raining. I don’t fancy getting soaked, so I slip off the coat, venture into my sunken lounge room and sink into the velvet cushions to reflect on my very own rugby league tragedy. I absent-mindedly grab the remote control and tune my Pioneer Kuro 50” plasma HD television set into the Fox replay of yesterday’s heartbreaking loss.
I will commit suicide tomorrow.
......................................................................................................................
-v-
