You've probably heard these two sayings - "Today is the first day of the rest of your life" and "Live each day as if it's your last". Gloomily contemplating my mortality on Sunday afternoon, the penny finally dropped. "Yeah", I thought to myself, "life is short. You've got to make the most of every day!" So I resolved to give myself a kick up the arse, stop prevaricating, stop lazing about and change my life's gears from first to fifth. To live each day as if it were your last...
On Monday I was up at dawn. Instead of the customary bowl of muesli and a banana I had a full English breakfast. It was time for Shirley to get up. "Coo-ey!" I called up the stairs and she came down in her dressing gown. "What the hell's going on?" she said pointing at the dining table where her breakfast plate was waiting - scrambled eggs, bacon, mushrooms, sausages, grilled tomatoes and a round of wholemeal toast. I explained that I had decided to live each day as if it were my last and that I was getting an early train to London. "Well I hope you do the washing up before you go!"
An hour later, after paying £145 for a first class train ticket to London, I was rattling along through the Midlands towards our great metropolis when I noticed a familiar face. He was sitting just across the aisle from me. It was our local MP and the Deputy Prime Minister - The Right Honourable Nicholas Clegg. He was leafing through some parliamentary papers and looking very important. He certainly wasn't expecting the daunting shadow of Yorkshire Pudding to fall across his table. "Can I help you?" he whined. "You sir are a complete and utter twat!" I sneered before grabbing his attache case and proceeding to fling his papers all over the carriage. Clegg was dumbfounded and like a big girl's blouse called for the guard.
The guard was all for slinging me off the train at Leicester but I slipped him a twenty pound note and for the rest of the journey endured the congratulations of my fellow passengers. "I've always wanted to do that!" said one as Clegg cowered sheepishly in the corner casting furtive glances my way - like a well-beaten dog.
At St Pancras I headed to the front of the taxi queue, pushing a couple of American tourists from Canton, Georgia out of the way before leaping in to the cab. "The Lyceum Theatre!" I instructed and soon we were weaving through the capital city's notorious traffic. I didn't have a ticket to see "The Lion King" so I headed for the stage door, brazenly flashing my Co-op Rewards Card at the security guard. I secured a seat in the front row of the stalls in spite of an old bejewelled biddy's protests and sat back to enjoy the show - an uplifting adventure that follows a fearless young lion cub called Simba as he learns about life on his journey to become King of the lions with memorable songs by Elton John and Tim Rice.
Afterwards I headed to "The Greenhouse" restaurant in Mayfair. "Have you got a reservation sir?" said this southern ponce at the door. "Have you got your own teeth?" I snarled, shoving him against the mahogany hat stand before claiming a corner table and enjoying a thoroughly delightful and exceedingly posh three course meal washed down with a litre of Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon White Gold.
Later, a private speedboat sped me along the Thames towards Greenwich where we spun around and surged back towards Tower Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. It was an energising experience. Amazingly, I spotted Clegg again - on his way into the seat of government I couldn't help myself as I yelled, "Oi Clegg!". He turned. "You're still a twat!"
On the train back to Sheffield, I saw the pop singer Jarvis Cocker brazenly snorting a line of cocaine. His spectacles were clouded with the stuff - like flour in a bakery. "Want some?" he challenged and never having tried the stuff before I said yes. It was all I could do to stop myself from sneezing but in a few minutes I was on a different plane of being as Jarvis and I crafted the lyrics to a new hit album. "Tickets please!" said the guard interrupting our high jinx. "Tickets Please. Good name for the album!" I suggested.
At Sheffield Station I went into the Sheffield Tap and sampled each one of the eleven traditional handpulled cask ales and then a busty young lady of the night called Leona asked if I wanted "business". Being a gentleman I will not detail what then happened in the disabled toilet just off platform one save to say that a dishevelled and dreamy-eyed Leona was heard afterwards mumbling, "You can't beat a good Yorkshire pudding!"
Back home in the suburbs, Shirley was just going up to bed when I put my key in the lock.
"Well, did you live today as if it was your last?" she asked.
"I guess so," I surmised.
"And what about tomorrow? Will you be living that as if it's your last as well?"
"Nah! I'm knackered. I think I'll just do a bit of gardening. Living each day as if it's your last is bloody expensive and exhausting! Night night love!"
And we kissed.
Dear reader...if it was your last day, how would you live it?