I'm largely posting this for somewhere to save my work without losing it, as my home computer has helpfully decided it won't save things any more. Anyway, these are the fruits of my current creative labours...

Fitch's fingers hovered over the buttons long enough for the tone to go dead, so he had to replace the receiver and start again. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. What did one say, in these sorts of scenarios? Was there such a thing as Helpline Etiquette? He'd always felt rather scathing about this sort of thing and, if he was honest, being in this situation now didn't make him any less so.

He dialled.

He waited.

A rather disingenuous and all together too sing-songy voice finally said:

"Thank you for calling the Employee Assistance Helpline. In order to help us answer your call more efficiently, please select one of the following options:

If you are or have been experiencing suicidal thoughts, please press one.

For difficulties involving marriage, divorce and for all other relationship issues, please press two.

For financial concerns, including debt and bankruptcy, please press three.

For all other enquiries, please hold."

There was a pause. Fitch considered the options and idly wondered which option one should pick if one were having suicidal thoughts due to a relationship which had gone down the pan as a result of debt-related worries, thinking perhaps one would have to deal with the issues chronologically.

Evidently there wasn't time to weigh up the options, and he was deemed to have held; the next thing he knew he was listening to a tinny version of "The Montagues and the Capulets", and wondering how long he might have to wait. It occurred to him that this rather torrid piece of orchestration was perhaps not the wisest choice of music. He would have expected something more calming, maybe a spot of Debussy? "The Lark Ascending"? Something to ease the tension, not to conjure up images of what was, in effect, youth knife crime.

Sixteen bars into "The Montagues and the Capulets" the music stopped sharply and the disingenuous voice cut in "Your call is important to us, but we are currently experiencing unusually high call volumes. Please hold, and an operator will be with you shortly."

Fitch pressed the speaker phone button and lay back on the sofa. He listened again to the sixteen-bar snippet of Tchaikovsky, and to the woman's assurances that he wouldn't be waiting long. Then he poured himself a whiskey. Single malt. None of that blend mallarkey.

So this was it. A mid-life crisis.Though at forty-eight "mid-life" was possibly a trifle optimistic. If it truly was "mid-life", he reasoned, swilling the liquid round in the glass and staring at it with an intensity that wasn't strictly necessary, he wouldn't die until he was... (he did the sum his head, maths never having been his strong point) ninety-six, which was pretty good by anyone's standards.

His dad had, according to his mum, had a mid-life crisis, but his dad had never been particularly adventurous or flamboyant, and as far as anyone could tell the extent of this crisis was that he took up fishing. He became quite enthusiastic, and not enirely unsuccessful, in certain areas at least. He took to going down to rock pool with a small plastic fishing net and trapping the shrimps, and parents eyed him suspiciously and ushered their offspring back towards the beach huts, and Fitch and his brother stared into the saucepan later that evening and watched the little creatures swim frantically round and round turning pinker and pinker until they eventually stopped.

His mother decided to forgo the mid-life crisis, declaring that she was too busy with the more mundane aspects of having three children, like spelling tests and headlice.

He topped up the glass and in spite of himself found that his left hand was beginning to conduct an imaginary orchestra as "The Montagues and the Capulets" swept into their fourth performance.

You could probably blame Margate to a certain extent, he mused, opting for a bit of self-analysis in order to pass the time. After all, living somewhere which was to all intents and purposes closed for two thirds of the year was hardly a good start.

(To be continued...)