Dear Simon

Dear Simon

I have made a decision, and one which I am sure will meet with your approval. I am to make that journey – on HMS PACE no less, making my way to the promised land, alighting at good health before meandering aimlessly along career path before marriage, two kids and a divorce come to the rescue.

Having followed the bible that is PACE, I have decided to give GET a go as it were.
Now I know you weren’t officially involved, but we all know you are the brains behind it. Modesty and good looking, you really are a catch.


I couldn’t decide between star jumps and shadow boxing. That aside I feel invigorated, enthused, motivated ( and occasionally sick ).....just like you said I would be. I have fostered a no pain, no gain, get go, can do, yes we can, from the get go attitude. You would be so proud.

The boxing was, and is, a little too much for me, my being semi comatose, so I decided to go with the star jumps.

Now I know you are hot on health and safety, especially your own, so I decided to remove all lamp shades should my splits follow a trajectory not unlike that of a ballerina. You never know, one can never be too careful. Just because I have been bedbound for twelve months doesn’t mean I should take any unnecessary risks.

The ambulance arrived in less than eight minutes beating the national average before sprawling me across the sea bed, Ward 16. I told the nurses all about you. They pretended never to have heard of you. The cheek. Perhaps they didn’t want to worry me, though a fellow patient did ask if you were still on the run.


Forgive me my Knight for I have sinned. I didn’t get better like you said I should. Now I know that those that don’t get better are suspected of being anti-psychiatry; that some are labelled Taliban militants, AL Qaeda, ISIS. Indeed you might even regard me as a sleeper cell, but it would be dishonest if I didn’t tell you that the real reason for me not wanting to shadow box is probably because I would have lost.
Still I accept that that is no excuse.

It started well. I wiggled my big toe, just like you said, and by gradations I was able to move. After several days I was a crawling machine. Bed to the kitchen in ten minutes. Even the kettle seemed surprised to see me, though perhaps it was an inopportune time for the window cleaner. At least he stopped whistling, and he should have known better than to have let go of the ladder.

Anyway, I digress my lord. It would be remiss of me in not mentioning these remarkable events to the wider public, emphasised no less by a report from my doctor. He measured my performance to be below that of a man my age with late stage congenital heart failure but above rigor mortis.

Of course to the naysayers such a report would only cloud the issue, but as soon as I am able to breathe unaided I plan to make my way down to the job centre immediately.


Between you and me mi lud, things have become complicated. You see following DAY THIRTEEN my health took what some would call a nose dive into the Marianna Trench, though I see that as being overly pessimistic. I still managed to get to the commode in time. Indeed I prefer to call it a tactical withdrawal of symptoms.
You might even say HMS PACE hit an iceberg. But these are details, mere trifles. What did one of your colleagues refer to these as ? Minor incongruities of which all such journeys are subject to.


Forgive me if I appear to be rambling. I am a little subdued – tired to be exact. It’s not so much that I have trouble sleeping; more a case that I have trouble waking.
Anyway just because I am drifting in and out of consciousness that’s no excuse for slacking off. Will try harder.


I am so sorry Lord Malpractice. I had a lengthy conversation with one of your colleagues, Baron Bullshit and he told me I wasn’t trying hard enough. He asked me who I was speaking to and what was my motive. By the way who’s David Tuller ?

The fact is I have tried everything and more; even Lady Liar said I have made an effort of sorts, though Michael Sharpe Practice said I am a discredit to the trial and threatened to throw me overboard.
HMS PACE is taking on water and it is all my fault. If only I had made myself well again. If only I could say I was recovered.


Dear Lord , hope is in abundance. I took out the tubes, packed away the defibrillator, and filed away my medication, because all is not lost. There I was with Father Reaper administering the last rites, when I noticed a pile of notes under the appellation ''PACE CONCLUSIONS''

Upon their perusal I was left in no doubt that I was recovered. I met the criteria, I was healthy !

HMS PACE had made it.

All that remains is for me to thank you from the bottom of my catheter.

I know that you are a busy man, but please I do hope that one day you will write to me. Unfortunately I won’t be able to thank you in person because, well, events have rather overran matters. Still if your majesty would like to reach me, you can do so at the address below.

Thank you once again.


Plot 23

Highgate Cemetery

North London

N6 6PJ


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