FUNNY THE WAY LIFE ENDS. A STAGE PLAY.

It is like you are born with a sell by date on your rear end, just out of sight from your concerns. Yet through life we live what in most cases would make a stage play, given a good script writer. The sad part is, we suddenly disappear. Thats it times up, farewell, nice chap and all that, and its all over. Yet we leave behind our 'stage play.' Oh its there, un-scrpited mind you. All the people you ever knew are all traceable, all the records of you can be found, all the jobs you worked in, your family, its all there, every nut and bolt.

For some there is even more of that 'stage play' left behind. Books, letters, all this that we leave on places like Hubpages, it lasts beyond your life. In fact if anyone was to dig into my 'stage play' they may find much that I wish I could find but do not know how, or just have not attempted to. Like the time I telephoned BBC Radio London's 'Robbie Vincent Radio Show' and had a chat with Spike Milligan. I never recorded it back then in the early 1970's, It was funny and maybe it was recorded somewhere, a little paragraph in my 'stage play'

We mall have those little moments, parts of our life that sit there waiting to be found, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Thats where sometimes its good to set the matters straight, write your own autobiography, just for posterity. Something that the kith and kin will find hidden on a CD rom marked The Whole Truth As It Really Was. Time to readjust the cranky ideas that some may have held about you. Time to say thank you where it was lacking, time to stop arguments going beyond the grave. All quite fun actually, sort of you writing your own 'stage play', just as it happened.

It has always made me feel it is sad that people in times past did not leave much about themselves. I knew an elderly lady, some 30 years ago. She had moved into the Hendon area where I lived and came to our religious meetings. On one occassion she invited my wife and I to her home to have tea, it was then she told us that she was the daughter of a Russian Zaar, that she and her brother, who died many years ago, had been handed to Gypsies by her parents, in payment to ensure they would secure that the children would reach England. Her parents knew that soon they would all be killed in the revolution, and that to all escape together would be certain death. She showed us many papers and letters, along with fantastic jewellery. I moved from Hendon and lost touch with her, then found out she had died, with no next of kin. Her life was as if it never happened, Natalia Avoutin, as she called herself, sticking to an identity on documents that her parents had passed to her to use was noiw no more. I find that sad that things about peoples lives just disappear.

My parents wrote nothing about their life nor tal;ked musch about it, my grandparents likewise, only rumours that become hand-me downs, never sure if they are true, like my grandfather on my mums side, he was involved in The Kursal fairground at Sothend On Sea, rumours no facts.

So before my sell by date, I have on CD an autobiograpthy, warts and all, and it was great fun writing it and being honest.