Charcot-Marie-Tooth and the Constant Goof

My life of varied employment. Where to start? Some highlights, some desperate lowlights. You can probably assign each to their relevant departments with little input from me, other than the very basics. But nothing takes away from the fact that my deformed feet get very, very itchy, and until recently have kept twitching. So, here’s the list:

Vehicle body repair; tyre, exhaust, brake and suspension fitter; hospital cleaner – a role you’ll see revived if you decide (which you definitely should) to purchase and read ‘Hell’s Mouth’. By me, Kevin Knuckey. Jewellery polisher; ancillary operative in a slaughter hall – sold to me as ‘boxing and labelling’. Complete bulls**t, if you’ll pardon the pun. Fashioning my way out of that place felt as liberating as the escape from Alcatraz must have done back in the day. Warehouse to sales to assistant manager to manager of a tile shop; kitchen design and sales; bathroom design and sales; bike mechanic; pyrographer; photographer; wood turner.

Reliving that list is exhausting. Yes, another terrible pun.

It was during my time as a bathroom designer that I learned of my future limited physical capabilities. This was seventeen years after the neurological specialists learned of them, but hey, we always seem a decade or two behind the trend in sleepy Cornwall. My fingers were curling, my feet were…well, just look at the second photo! And it can be a treacherous condition; I refer you to the first photo. Hanging over Hell’s Mouth in search of an inviting book cover shot can end an author with dodgy ankles’ career before it has truly begun. I've got to admit though, that would be a hell of a way to boost sales...

So, it was Charcot-Marie-Tooth disorder. My muscles were wasting away and my nerve endings were weak. Nonetheless, finally, I realised that I could still type (one finger from each hand, two when I’m feeling cocky.) And also, I had and still have a mind that never sleeps. I can make things up all day, and with my body shutting down before my brain I dream all night. Granted, most of the dreams are useless, like a recent episode where I convinced my wife I could float anywhere I wanted. I floated out the door, across the garden so gracefully…and hit the fence. That was a wasted dream, though having the ability to remember them vividly, there’s occasionally a nugget in amongst the fool’s gold.

Now I’m waffling, so it’s time to wrap up. But my point has been reached, as surely as even a stuttering washing machine reaches the end of its final spin. Charcot-Marie-Tooth has stopped me being a faltering career goof. I’m writing for a living, and hopefully captivating my readers along the way. Nothing can be more fulfilling.