It was Tuesday when they said goodbye.  Packing up the car, they drove out to the edge of the cliffs.  Sat. Drank tea from the thermos. Looked out.

The back of the car was full.  And the boot.

They looked at each other and released the hand  brake, leaping from the car just moments before it plummeted to the beach below.

Uncle had always loved making sand castles.

An offer came by email and, unusually, he bit.

Gathering all of the images from childhood and after, he collated his life in a series of albums.

That one. That was a terrible year. The contents were good, but the binding was damaged by the time the book arrived. Whilst waiting for it to be resent, he looked at the gap in the bindings as the remainder of his life stretched across shelves in the lounge.

And this is what I am, and how I came to be, he thought. Where is the ambition. Where is the success. Here I see fake smiles and excuses, page after page.

Deciding that the missing year should form the basis for adventure, he looked into the last pages of prior volume and the first of its successor, and wondered what he’d done. What he should have, could have.

Ahh.

The next morning saw the purchase of a tent, waterproofs, a backpack and matches. As the house burned down, he set out on his bike, to recreate the past.