Never alive until you are hunted
Looking back, I guess the warning was quite clear.
‘A man never feels truly alive until he is hunted.’
At the time, it came out of context. In my local, the pub where I felt comfortable and safe. From a man I considered a friend.
I was drinking a pint of draft Guinness. The landlord was a grumpy middle age man I had known since my late teens. I remember him slender younger but over the years he had allowed his girth to spread and the misery of his life told tales across his face. He had been collecting beer glasses from the empty tables behind me and I was leaning with elbows pressed against the bar.
It was tea time and the pub was quieter than usual he turned his head in my general direction and spoke those words that still haunt me, more than a decade on. Softly, for my ears only.
I felt he knew something. That he had a vague knowledge of my past and of my future. He seemed pleased with himself. I was left trying to work it out. Only now am I starting to appreciate what he meant.