The European Tour


Retirement?
Back home, I knew I had to do something for the sake of my sanity. Work was definitely the problem. All the enthusiasm necessary to run a successful business had drained away. My answer was to leave and wait until the lawyers decided to finish their job. My partners understood, knowing I'd been slacking for some time. Of course I would remain available to assist them, but I think we were all relieved when I left in October 1991. My plan of action was set. I hoped I would be off to Antigua by the late spring of 1992. The final hearing on costs was now set for March. That day couldn't come soon enough. In the meantime, I drove trucks across Europe for a friend of mine who ran a company delivering parts to factories across the continent. These part were invariably required to avoid production grinding to a halt. This meant we broke every rule in the transport book to get them there. It was a tough job, but an experience I enjoyed. It gave me the relative freedom and knowledge I was actually going somewhere.
Trust in Me
Of course, the dreaded implants still had to be negotiated. You can imagine how I was feeling about those. My abdomen resembled a lawn which had been infested with moles by this time. Nearly twenty little mounds covered its surface. The procedure was to cease on my next visit to Charing Cross Hospital. The first question out of the lips of the new endocrinologist was, "Why do you insist on having implants ? When I told him it was to avoid having mood swings, hot flushes and discomfort,  he said, "Well I see no reason why you can't have injections every three weeks" Unflappable as I try to be, I flapped. For nigh on four years I'd been under the impression this was taboo. Now, here was a peer telling me it was fine to have injections every three weeks! It made a nonsense of my pitted abdomen and months of dealing with pus oozing from incisions. Talk about the left hand and right hand not communicating! He gave me an injection and packed me off with a prescription and orders to go to my GP for future injections. It occurred to me that a lot of money and time had been wasted giving me implants, when all that was required was a little bit less caution on the part of my original doctor.
The Final Act
March 1992 and our final day in court. I sat and listened as a tale of mismanagement unfolded. Field Fisher Waterhouse were berated by the Taxing Master for missing orders issued by him. This demonstrated only too clearly how they had ignored our case. It cost them dearly when he ordered them to charge us only what the Taxing Master agreed. Most of the time Lawyers collect the balance over and above what is allowed by the Taxing Master. I was so disgusted with their performance that I stormed out of the hearing. They failed to make a case for all the work I had done for the trial, totalling over 60,000 dollars. Our losses could now be calculated and felt.
Loose Ends
My mother moved that spring, leaving her memories behind. The timing of the release of money from the court case meant I could help her renovate the charming bungalow we had selected as her new home. One of my ex-employees was hired to do the work, which I knew he would do very well. My departure to Antigua beckoned. I'd speak with Phil, the guy who was to take on the hotel, from time to time. There were delays through the summer, until, finally, he gave me a date of departure. We walked round a cricket field in late August discussing my role and I thought he was happy to have me along. All that remained for me to do was to finalise the account with Field Fisher Waterhouse. This was done on September 12th, a mere two and a half years after the last day of the Slander hearing, and five and a half years after we were first told we had no alternative but to sue Rafiuddin. All I cared about was having enough money to get on with the next stage of my life. I now had enough, or so I thought.
Come Fly With Me
I abandoned my house. There is no other way to describe it. I met with Phil at Gatwick for our flight to Antigua. Stupidly, I'd packed my alarm clock in my main baggage. Out it came to be inspected in the x-ray machine. That seemed to irritate Phil. He was normally an affable guy, always joking and laughing. I though I was in for a great time. Half way across the Atlantic he said to me, " You know, I am not the guy you think I am". Nice timing! He was right, I was about to be introduced to the bizarre. I was also about to begin injecting myself with Testosterone, not wishing to trust nurses, one of whom had already speared me in the Sciatic nerve, causing great discomfort for a week afterwards.