Free Spotted Pigs and Green Tomatoes by Rosie Boycott Page A

holes was red, sometimes bleeding, always angry. When he told
     me that I was also going to need wires through my foot, four of them, I wanted to scream. Instead I asked him my chances -
     '40/60,' he replied, and right up to the moment that he took the frame off he never altered that verdict.
    It had been a long autumn, hobbling around on crutches, getting exhausted when I walked any further than a couple of hundred
     yards. None of my clothes fitted, partly because I was putting on weight, but also because no trousers would fit over the
     X-fix and I looked and felt like a bag lady. I was also in a deep depression which had been living inside me like a malignant
     storm for almost two years. After I left the Express at the start of 200I, my sense of self seemed to curl up and wither. The paper had been sold to Richard Desmond, multimillionaire
     pornographer who made his fortune out of titles like Asian Babes and Big Ones. His every other word was 'fuck'. From the moment details of the sale were confirmed, I knew my days as the paper's editor
     were numbered. Even so, I wasn't remotely prepared for the shock. I'd been going to work every day for the last fifteen years;
     for the last ten of them I'd been an editor. Work, I realised, had meant a great deal more to me than simply a way of paying
     the bills. It defined the way I spent my time, the structure of my days, the mood of my evenings and weekends. To a large
     extent it provided the subjects of conversation. On a deeper level, it defined who I was, to the world at large and, all too
     often, to myself. I hated to admit just how much I had become attached to labels to define me, but it was the truth.
    There were mornings when I'd wake up in tears, unsure how to get through the day, unsure of who I was. I was furious with
     myself for being less than fine. The last few months at the Express had been a nightmare and much of it had been played out in a very public arena. I had a terrific husband, a great daughter,
     four wonderful stepchildren and a lovely house to enjoy. Plus I'd been given a chunky golden handshake and was able to depart
     the Express with my head held high. To confess that I was less than fine felt self-indulgent and ridiculous. The inner resources that
     had stood me in good stead through difficult years had evaporated and, after twenty years of mostly continual sobriety, I
     began to drink again. I knew as I picked up the bottle that it was a form of insanity. I'm an alcoholic and drink is as dangerous
     to me as sugar is to a diabetic but, in my gathering depression, the brief oblivion that it offered seemed preferable to the
     chilly reality of my life. Inevitably, it only caused more chaos, not just for me, but for Charlie and Daisy and my family
     as well. I was drunk when I had my car accident, which was reported in the papers under a picture of me looking wild-eyed
     and crazy after a court case in Salisbury. It was as though everywhere I turned there were nails punching holes through my
     shattered self-esteem.
    The only moments of peace I could find were in the garden, particularly in the wood. InSeptember 2003, when I could still convince myself that I was going to walk freely again by the end of the year, I'd decided
     to create a garden in the overgrown wood which joins our land. The wood had been planted twenty-five years earlier, mainly
     with oaks, but it had been neglected over the years and now the trees were growing too close together, slender trunks rising
     up to a canopy of leaves. We began by cutting down some fifteen of them, opening up spaces and allowing sunlight on to the
     leafy floor. In the centre we carved out a pond which was lined with old carpets, some donated by friends in the village.
     Paths were laid and some huge lengths of oak dragged into the wood to create chairs and a sofa, which we positioned by the
     fence, overlooking the park in a southwesterly direction. On those autumn weekends I'd balance on my crutches