This article is about the tragic, terrible waste of the life of Jonathan Porter, and I feel that before you start reading it, you should be aware that it is a tale of deep sadness, and he leaves behind a family who loved him dearly, and miss him enormously.

The story starts three weeks ago, a Friday morning, when Jonathan was diagnosed with lung cancer. His smoking habit had always been a worry to him, but while he felt fit and healthy he saw no cause for undue concern, despite the warnings on the packets of his favourite brand that he went through at quite a pace. When the phone call came from his doctor, asking him to meet him urgently at his surgery he didn't think the worst. When he arrived at the health centre the secretary smiled happily at him as usual. When he caught sight of a neighbour nearby, his wave was returned with equal vigour. When he knocked at the door, his doctor called him in with his usual breezy 'Enter!' shout. Though that must have been pure habit due to repeating that routine several times a day for several years. Because Doctor Andrews' face did not match his previous apparently high spirits.

Life can change in an instant, and for Jonathan, by the time he left Dr Andrews' office, his mind had been made up. He hadn't had an inkling that his gradual decline in health could be something so serious. He had just guessed that passing through forty, it was a natural development to be bigger, slower and less energetic. He dismissed the coughing and wheezing as being asthma brought on by living in the city with its many forms of pollution.

A long, lingering, painful death was eventually on the cards, and it wasn't for Jonathan, oh no. Dr Andrews had told him about possible treatments, but they seemed to point to a slow painful life as well. And counseling to be received alongside treatment was dismissed immediately, due to previous disasters, especially the one where the therapist had convinced him to give his wife one more try, when he had explored every avenue in an attempt to get away from her, and was already pretty much committed to eighteen-year- old Kylie.

The railway station was just down the road and round the corner, and seemed like a good place to finish it. A huge metal machine traveling at high speed is enough to cause a very quick end. As Jonathan approached the station, so did the non-stop express to London, though at an appreciably higher speed. Suddenly the brakes screeched on. A high pitched squealing was all that could be heard. When Jonathan got to the platform, the train had come to a halt, some way beyond the station, and there was panic all around. There was a group of agitated would-be passengers huddling around the edge of the platform. Jonathan approached them, and as he peered over the edge, towards the rails, he saw about five yards apart, the lower portions of some guy's legs. Slightly further back the way the train had come was a large splash of red. Obviously someone had beaten him to this opportunity. Turning round sadly, Jonathan thought that he had never heard of two people committing suicide in unrelated situations at the same place on the same day. It had stolen his enthusiasm for that particular method. And besides, the station would be shut for hours.