'Lucky' Lomax came to an important decision. The time had come to end his life. This was not, please understand, because he was a manic depressive in the throes of a particularly destructive phase of his condition nor because he was in the final stages of a debilitating disease and could no longer stand the pain. It was purely because he was fed up with life and decided that he would be far better off out of it. If I tell you something of his history I think you'll agree that Lucky was one of the unluckiest people you could ever meet but I'll leave you to be the judge. Of course, 'Lucky' wasn't his real name at all but merely the nickname he had acquired at school in much the same way as tall boys are perversely called 'Shortie' and fat ones are called 'Slim'.

I suppose it began at his christening. Just when the vicar, holding the infant Lomax in his arms, was preparing to name him, he was overtaken by such a tremendous coughing fit that the baby slipped from his hold and plunged headlong into the font. Although willing hands speedily rescued the baby the service never quite regained its proper solemnity and the baby's damp clothes laid the foundation for a subsequent cold. Two days later the cold turned to 'flu and, by the end of the week, baby Lomax had developed double pneumonia. The doctor who treated him told his parents that their child was particularly unlucky to have contracted what is so often in one so young a fatal disease. However, in other ways, he appeared very healthy so the doctor thought there was a good chance he would recover. In practice he did exactly that but he was never the same again.

At the age of four he was playing happily on his garden swing when his mother's attention was momentarily distracted by some rather racy goings on by the couple in the next door garden. Young Lomax went higher than he should, fell off and badly broke both his arms. Plastered up on either side from wrist to shoulder, he naturally lacked the necessary balance other children rely on for their day to day activities and, a few days later, he fell down the stairs and broke both his legs. As a result he had to be confined to his bed until all four limbs were fully functional again.

Between the age of six and twelve Lomax attended a nearby school as often as his health would allow but, sadly, if a childhood ailment was diagnosed anywhere within a five mile radius of home or school, he would catch it and, worse, have it in its most virulent form. Despite that (Lomax didn't acquire his sobriquet until a year or two later), he thoroughly enjoyed school life although with hindsight it might have been better had his parents not chosen a school that insisted on competitive sports. Although soccer and tennis were musts on the curriculum he was excused both boxing - his parent's deciding that such a close combative exercise was, given their son's history, asking for trouble - and cross-country running, this because they thought it dangerous for him to be away from immediate supervision. As it was, the sports he did indulge in transpired to provide quite enough opportunity for personal injury. At soccer he was initially placed in goal, thus avoiding the dangers associated with face to face tackling but, as goalkeeper, he brought to the role an enthusiasm seldom seen on the sport's field. He threw himself from side to side in his efforts to defend his fiefdom until, during one game, he hurled himself so energetically against one of the goal posts that he knocked himself unconscious. When he came round, apparently none the worse for wear, the Master in charge wisely moved him to the position of touch judge. Tennis, too, gave him no let up in ill fortune. During one hard fought set he rushed towards the net in an effort to return a difficult drop shot but failed to stop. The result was that he somersaulted over the top of the net and landed squarely on his back in his opponent's court. The damage to his spine meant he had to spend the rest of the term in a specially designed corset much to his chagrin but the amusement of his fellow pupils.

His secondary school life was equally unlucky. In chemistry he set fire one day not only to his hair, leaving him completely bald, but to the whole laboratory. In physics, in a helpful attempt to free a tap that had stuck fast, it came away from the wall and the ensuing gush of water drenched both him and his classmates as well as flooding most of the lower school and, in PE, he leap-frogged enthusiastically over a horse but failed to land correctly and broke both his arms again. But such misfortunes did not dint his quest for knowledge and even though he was often confined to bed he read assiduously, worked hard and his reports regularly confirmed that, as a pupil, he was an academically bright but physically unlucky.

By the time he was fifteen his body was responding to the sexual awakening experienced by all adolescents and in an attempt to explain these new feelings devoured the available information provided within the covers of the smuggled copies of 'Playboy' and 'Knave' circulating round his dormitory. These, while giving him a vivid picture of the female form and the general concept of procreation, gave little indication of its potential niceties. So it was perhaps understandable that when Sally Weaver, affectionately known to the Lower Fourth as 'Plum Tart', took him by the hand to the bicycle sheds one evening after school and, once inside, speedily dropped her trousers and knickers before expertly stripping his lower clothes, he should find it slightly bemusing. However, once her practiced hands had pulled him towards her, Lucky realized what was expected of him. The process over, Sally extricated herself, retrieved her clothes and, with a cheery 'Ta, Lucky', went her own way off home. As for Lucky, he was left with the distinct feeling that if that was sex it was an overrated pastime and, given a choice, he would in future prefer his play station so it was with his characteristic ill-luck that some six weeks later his parents were informed by the Weavers that their daughter Sally was pregnant and, by all her accounts, Lucky was the father. Despite protestations to his parents concerning Sally's reputation and possible multitude of partners they had no stomach for the publicity of a paternity case and paid for the abortion.

Leaving school, Lucky was advised to take an office job and he secured his first in the estimating department of a local glass blower. But here, as before, ill luck dogged him. If he touched any of the goods they would fall and break, if he was entrusted with important papers they would be lost and if he was told to attend a meeting, like as not, he would either arrive late or at the wrong place. So, as each employer dispensed with his services, he drifted from job to job until he came to that fateful conclusion that he would be far better off dead and set about fulfilling that purpose. Over a period of some weeks he purchased a large quantity of paracetamol tablets and one night, armed with a bottle of wine and his hoard of tablets he lay on his bed in his digs and swallowed them in ones and twos washing down each mouthful with a swig of wine. However, unused to drinking large quantities of alcohol, the effect of downing a whole bottle at one go merely made Lucky sick and his planned pathway to the next world disappeared down the lavatory bowl. His next attempt was potentially more immediate. He had often noted a vicious looking hook protruding from the ceiling but had previously given it little thought. Now, however, he saw its full potential. The next day he purchased a length of rope and, that evening, standing upon the table he knotted one end of the rope around his neck and tied the other end to the hook. Giving a final look at the photograph of his parents he launched himself into space.

Of course, as is so common in old houses, the roof had long been riddled with woodworm and dry rot and the effect of the sudden jerk on one of its already weakened beams was enough to bring down the ceiling, rafters and roofing tiles in one avalanche of rubble. Lucky, in crashing to the floor, had rolled under the table-top and was therefore shielded from the devastation raining from above. Choking with the dust he managed to free the rope around his neck to give himself air but then, devoid of any further idea of what to do, he lay still and was soon fast asleep. He was awoken by the sound of someone battling their way through the mess towards him. 'Blimey Mate', the new arrival uttered as he saw Lucky, 'aren't you a lucky one! You could have been killed under this lot.'

"Lucky" by Dermot Hoare