But, irony upon bad timing upon duty - my first day of freedom was tainted with sadness.

A funeral. The invitation (is that right, is it an invitation or a summons) was delivered by one of the less humorously challenged orderlies - I called him Ginge. Hairy and most certainly reddish of hair he passed the bad news with a modicum of apology. Good old MOD.

Band of Brothers and all that. 'They' - being the nominal owners of the Centre and also being mindful of the bonds between us broke one of the cardinal rules and told me of my friend's passing.

No detail of course, just the facts. Date, time, protocols and so forth.

So, I - being released on license – dutifully turned up, immaculate dress uniform, medals, dry eyes and all to pay my last respects to a good and honest man. God alone knows what was in the highly polished box, certainly not what his parents would expect. The Staff Sergeant, recognising me from days past gave me chapter and verse, not knowing of my recent incarceration and treatment but I managed to stay outwardly calm.

Then, an hour of civilised, bland chat at the family home followed by the ‘warm down’ as proscribed in the pub. Ended, as usual with a fight between ‘town’ and ‘reg’ but I managed, by dint of age, RHIP and sheer exhaustion to wander off home.

Goodbye Sgt L. Requiescat in pace and, without doubt, I shall see you soon.

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The bosom of my family, my dearest wife close by. Only, her bosom was denied to FoxWriter. Just a glimpse of bra and bare bottom as her nightie is shrugged on. Even so, female flesh fleetingly glimpsed in the raw is much better than page 21 of Men Only. After so many days in a single cold bed it was good to snuggle, even if there was no damn response. What went wrong? Why am I a stranger in her bed?

But now, here in late July, I am much blessed and trusted by being allowed home on Thursday chez Renard. Home until Sunday pm. Mrs Fox is off to her (solitary) bed and I am here, glass of Red (my old friend) in hand, allowed the freedom of the InterBabbleNetWeb unsupervised. Apart, that is, from the good and upright gentlemen and ladies of SW1P who, with my best interests at heart may rescind my weekend 'pass' and send me back to deepest Gloucs. and that delightful Georgian house with the pleasant medical ladies and muscular male orderlies.

But I digress.

My breakdown, all 6 days of wandering wilderness in the Black Mountains, sodden nights under cheap canvas, starlit skies and shivering clothing, the final vicious punch-up in that nondescript Welsh Borders pub (apologies to the hefty twentysomething yobbo for his broken jaw and the 2 MPs with multiple contusions - not what HMG trained me for at all), followed by interminable incarceration in that beautiful Georgian GL16 house has been therapeutic if not conclusive. I do, be it whispered, feel better but not yet 'right'. Gallons of intravenous Marmite or whatever those white-coated sods have pumped into me, hours of bland chats, 'therapy' and conversation, many, many nights of blank ceilings (how I hate blank ceilings) have numbed me but not quite 'cured' me. I am sure they will, but maybe a few more weeks are needed yet.

But, I am home for the weekend and, I want to take this opportunity to apologise to someone I adore for my silence, someone quite beautiful. She knows who she is, what she is, but does not recognise how wonderful she is. I am truly sorry for my breakdown, my (as the official phraseology puts it) 'PTSD'.

I will be driven back on Sunday - more therapy, more supression of long ago awfulness but, thank God, no evisceration of the recent past.

A plea to SW1P, my good friends, please do not delete this innocent and heartfelt post, simply accept it as the ramblings of a blogger of little consequence and a 'weekend pass'.

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Red is naughty but also has a conscience.

Glass by glass he lowers my defences but raises my higher emotions - those feelings that recall the sad times, the painful events and the days gone but not forgotten. My good friend and sneaky adversary is Red. Nowadays Red is no mystery and certainly no enemy. He is like a chattering acquaintance who, by dint of ceaseless gibbering pushes me into revelations that are best left behind the curtain but at the same time need to be said and fortunately leavened by humanity and warmth.

But Malt. That is very different. The bloody stuff just drops me into a deep darkness, blackness, a sour bitterness that is untempered by any warmth or reason. My recall narrows into a dense closed ravine, raising adrenaline fuelled lust for blood and another, "oh If I have to".

Just one more kill. Only one more. The sheer joy of taking a life, long forgotten (or let's be really honest here chaps, long supressed) instincts arise anew in the bleak wasteland brought back by Malt.

My feelings raised by Scotland's finest export are something you would not wish to experience unless you have a fondness for leaping off cliffs, facing a howling mob in the back streets of Derry or feeling a 7.62 round tear into your side. Blood boiling, breathless spine tingling exhaltation. Or indeed, wallowing in flat, emotionless memories that have been utterly sterilised by months of very expensive State-funded psychotherapy.

Fortunately I am alone tonight and the Darkside will only leak out onto the Internet in the form of these ravings.

Have another glass FoxWriter, just one more and this last one might just bring on the blackness of deepsleep that blots out the Darkside.

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Possibly I missed the intriacies of Harris' plot or Hopkins' acting but a few days in the lost wilderness of Brecon Beacons has, even if only for a while, restored my sense of reality and what, as they say, is what.

I didn't see any former compatriots or indeed any of the current crop of hopefuls but I did meet several vocal sheep and more than a few Pinus sylvestris.

Clear blue skies, clean pure air and absolute (after the sun went down) silence.

Lungs exorcised. Muscles exercised. Mind excised.

FoxWriter is now a happy Fox indeed.

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I used to lie for a living, which is not as odd as it sounds.

Many occupations incorporate some form of lying as an integral part of their modus operandi and also because the sort of people who take on such a role which involves bending, twisting or breaking the truth are eminently suited for that task.

Obvious candidates are: politicians (very topical), journalists, estate agents and of course salespeople. Traditionally other suspects would be: car mechanics, builders, and probably writers and actors although the latter two can be forgiven as everyone accepts lying serves a positive purpose.

Doctors have to lie on occasions in cause of protecting patient’s sensibilities, as do police officers in the equally good cause of catching criminals.

I was paid to lie, more than that I actually had to live the lie, actually becoming someone else, sometimes for months and months. At first it was odd, disorientating, frightening at times but eventually I became used to the schizophrenic existence and - mostly - had little difficulty in returning to my real persona. The problems that did occur centred on those close to me who had to accept, not only my disappearance and lack of contact for long periods but also the inevitable problems with the transition from who I had become back to who I really was.

I have not lived that life for many years now; I am solidly in a world of normality and commonplace existence. Sometimes, in dreams or very occasionally in moments of absent-minded déjà vu a trace of past will intrude but essentially I am Mr. AverageAndOrdinary FoxWriter.

But now, perhaps because of revelations that were best left alone I have been accused of lying possibly hinting that I was regressing back into my previous career, living as it were, another life. The charge is grave.

I have not been a paid liar for several years hence.

The question is, do I defend against this accusation or do I accept that an opinion, if honestly and fairly held is valid and therefore simply take the situation as the only reality that one can find on here?

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Some may accuse me of cowardice, of craven acceptance of the oligarchy, of bowing the knee, of subservience to State pressure. Duty, honour, RHIP. Noblesse oblige and all that tosh.

If you do not understand this then fair enough, if you do understand then send me a message because you surely know who I am.

I can assuredly mention Cathy - my poor lovely Cathy, and Richard - my poor friend Richard. But there are those whose stories I cannot tell, lying forever far from home. Rupert Brooke was absolutely, totally, bloody right.

So - as my good friend ABE puts it - "comfortable slippers" stories only. Will this be boring, will this be enough, will there be any point at all? Today's stories are all that are available to me. Is this the end of the real FoxWriter?

Yes, my friends I know it is Friday night, the traditional time for FoxWriter to spout his drivel and open his heart, lay bare his soul and maybe to lift just a small corner of the secretive State curtain. Bear with me please. I have now scoured this blog of any offensive, indiscrete and (unfortunately) all - thoughts, feelings, comments and revelations - personal or professional.

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