Some things start sadly and end quite happily; this is one of those things.

There are those who might think that I embarked on an adventure that is essentially immoral or unethical or indefensible, but I have tried all my life to work hard and get rich while being kind to my neighbors and to the planet; it has not worked out. I have unpaid bills, I sleep alone. I have fatigue, grey depression and sometimes even despair. I have ingrown toenails, less than good teeth, less than a truly full head of hair; people try to charm me, cajole me, patronise me, they lie to me and avoid touching me. I am old, just old. And I want out, or off and away. Something different.

…I have tried all my life to work hard and get rich while being kind to my neighbors and to the planet; it has not worked out. I have unpaid bills, I sleep alone. I have fatigue, grey depression and sometimes even despair…

Though I have learnt, like everyone else, to be wary of modern solutions, both local and global, I was hooked by an advertisement entitled “die-The-death” in last month’s issue of Age & Issues. They promised to end it all painlessly. I paid online, as you do for a vacation, except that I was buying an all-inclusive death. Scanning the list of “Possible Passings,” I admit that I pondered “Jet-ski incident” and dwelt over “Sexual exertion accident,” but finally, I clicked the box marked “Surprise.” My client number duly arrived and I was told that I could use it to track my death date on the net.

I waited. And I went back on the net, tracking. They were busy. I would have to be patient. Patient! Waiting to die and having paid in advance? Then suddenly an email. Would tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. be convenient? Well, no, it would not be convenient. It was too soon, and anyway it would be plain stupid to miss the last episode of Rona’s Adventures in Rome on TV. I mean, I had already enjoyed fifteen hours of her antics and to go off into the blue-beyond leaving her stranded alone in the amphitheater with that randy Italian seemed both unfair to her and unnecessarily cruel to me. So I said No. Thursday at 10:00 a.m. would be better. Just after breakfast. I assured them that I would be ready with all vital papers, credit cards, last wills and testaments etc. in an obvious place and the gas turned off. They said that Thursday they would be busy, but they would do their best to squeeze me in. I admit the word “squeeze” made me feel anxious.

Wednesday night I didn’t sleep. I awoke unready and unexcited by the notion of my usual (and in this case, the last) breakfast. I felt lethargic. To put it bluntly, I felt too tired and too depressed to die. So I called.

They were cool and I was shrill. Then we were all angry. I admit, in the heat of the moment, I threatened to sue; they calmed suddenly and agreed to a new date and time. Absolutely, definitely, Saturday at noon.

When Saturday arrived, I was prepared, stoic, a little better dressed than usual, with the apartment tidied and a couple of seeming useful, kindly letters written and positioned behind the clock on the mantle-piece. 12:12 p.m. No show. No death. I began to suspect that I had been (not for the first time in my life) taken for a long ride by a bunch of short crooks, when suddenly the door burst open…

There stood a huge cowboy, a Texan I would say, judging by the hat (though I admit, I rush to these kind of judgments). He said, “Hi! I am the Angel of Death,” and he drew a gun and fired. There was an almighty explosion and the guy fell back on the newly vacuumed hearth rug with a messy wound in his chest. When I had recovered a little from the half-expected surprise of this event, I leant forward and I could tell (we old folks recognise the condition) that he was dead; stone dead.

I called. I explained that there had obviously been a problem with the gun, that he was dead, that I was upset, angry and dissatisfied. They raced around and did a thorough job of clearing up, I have to give them credit for that. By early evening I was sitting before the TV and no one would have known that anything, anything had occurred. I was relieved in a way, and well into the first episode of Rona’s Adventures in Sicily.

The following morning they telephoned, a nice-sounding young lady; to compensate me for my trouble, they asked if I would I accept a free weekend in Las Vegas? I have never been to Las Vegas and, truth be told, I have to consider the possibility that I have been avoiding the place. I said that Canada, the far north, would be more to my liking. She pointed out that by the time I got there, it would be time to turn round and come back. Then send me for a week, or even two, I suggested. It’s mighty cold there, she said. Yeah, I said, I could catch my death.

I explained that there had obviously been a problem with the gun, that he was dead, that I was upset, angry and dissatisfied.

The following morning they sent all the details of a two week trip. I would be roaming wild among the pines and staying at what they called forest lodges. There were two tickets; obviously they did not want me to die of loneliness. I decided to take along my old friend Fred. He used to be a boy scout leader and I thought his skills might be useful.

We headed north on one of those long, slow trains where you can look out of the window and see the last car still snaking its way through the snowy hills behind you. It was cold and the lodges were, let’s say, basic. Room service was not what I imagine it would have been in Las Vegas, but we soon got used to reindeer soup served twice a day. Truth to tell, we began to feel a bit free. And we did make a great discovery, namely a combination of pine cone whisky and downright, reckless merriment.

One night we should have died, Fred and me, but we survived. We were a little drunk, maybe even a little unclothed, singing in the snow in a clearing in the woods. He fell over and I had difficulty getting him back on his feet. At that moment someone passed at speed on a snowmobile and missed us by inches. The driver stopped and came back. I was trembling all over. Fred seemed to have gone to sleep. The driver was obviously a native of the far north. He heaved us both onto his trailer and took us to his home.

Inside it was very warm, full of women and children, chattering and laughing, and the air was heavy with the smell of good food and log fire. They gave us something unbelievably delicious to eat. I reckoned I had arrived in heaven. I told them why I was there, everything, and they told me to cancel my contract and get my money back; the company had fouled up and right was all on my side. They advised me to say simply that I’d changed my mind. So the next morning I called. They were nice. No problem, they said, that’s life, it happens all the time.