As I dangled from the precipice, I felt absolutely certain that I would die. My fingers were slipping slowly but inevitably from the ledge and with no one else for a hundred miles in every direction, I knew for a fact that there was no hope of rescue. In fact – and I don’t mind telling you this now, in the warmth and comfort of my own home – I had fully accepted the fact of my own death even before I lost my grip and went hurtling into the abyss below.
As dictated by cliché, the entirety of my life unfolded in my mind’s eye, from birth through childhood to early adulthood and finally to this, my final, fatal misadventure. As I tumbled through the air towards absolutely certain death with no hope of a reprieve, I found a strange kind of peace. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my days were at an end (to the extent that if by some highly unlikely miracle I was to survive, it would be so unfeasible as to to be virtually an insult to any hypothetical audience who might be observing me). I was a goner and I knew it.
Before I continue my story, may I refresh your glass? Are you quite comfortable enough? Excellent. Now, on with the tale...
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