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The World Cup that was being held in France was on during my time in the Falklands, and so the MOD bought a second channel on the satellite so they could supply us with a live feed so we could actually watch games as they happened. This did mean that some games kicked off at breakfast time, so used to sit in the cafe in 12 Facility, especially at weekends, watching the games.

Out Army Corporal would not allow us to watch games at work, but said when England played he would cover work for us so we could watch those games.

That Micheal Owen scored his screamer against Argentina, with the four of us in our room watching the live feed in a tiny portable TV shows how long ago that was. He since became a star, moved to Real Madrid, Newcastle and retired.

The final was on a Sunday, and the Armourer's Bar was the only one on base to have the forethought to have applied for an early licence to open. The bar, The Southern Comfort, opened at midday, with the game kicking off in the early evening. I had made a fortune out of shadying that week and I had over a hundred quid in my pocket when I went out to the bar.

I can just about remember the game as France beat Brazil, and we celebrated long into the night. I went to the pizza bar and spent the last of my cash on a couple of slices, meaning I had somehow spent over a hundred quid on beer in one day, with each can only costing a pound each. I could not have drunk over 100 cans, but I have no idea where the money went.

I was now a fitness fanatic, doing double boxercise twice a week, normal gym sessions four other days and Friday afternoon playing 5 a saide football. I was trim, and so fit.

The final week of my tour I took my three days R&R, three nights in a bed and breakfast on Pebble Island, an island north of East Falkland, I think. And so named for semi-precious stones found on a beach near to the small group of houses. They had long since been cleared off the beach, but the name still stood. You went there to get away from Mount Pleasant, to have some home cooked food, and to walk and see wildlife.

But to get there you had to brave the Island Government's airline, FIGAS. Their planes were tiny, big enough for four people and you and your bags had to be weighed the day before your flight so they could see if more people or luggage or mail could be flown. And then the results would be broadcast on the evening news on the radio. So, the passenger list and weights were known to all that listened.

Due to the constant winds, the plane would take off, fly and land, crabbing, at an angle, sometimes alarmingly so, to the direction of travel. Taking off from the airport was fine, down the runway, but on Pebble Island the airstrip was on the side of the beach, in field with the burnt out wrecks of Argentinian planes from the way still rusting where RAF rockets had destroyed them.

We were met my landrover and taken to the farm where we had our own room, and settled in before having a huge cooked meal for dinner. There was an honesty bar for drinks, including spirits. At night we would go outside to look up at the stars in the heavens, the majesty of the Milky Way spread out before us. It was wonderful.

The next day I was provided with a packed lunch, and I walked the length of one side of the island, along the beach and back. I saw a King Penguin on the beach, looking a little sorry for itself, it had a slight oil contamination, but back in the evening the farmer reported it to the Government and was dealt with the next day. A Crested CaraCara came and landed beside me as I walked to a five barred gate. A huge bird of prey, close enough to get a shot with the camera I had rented. Sadly, the pictures were lost during my subsequent divorce, so you will have to take my word for it.

Along the beach a flock of vultures followed me at a distance, although I was as fit then at any time in my life, I wasn't going to peg out. On an inland lake, a few rare Black Necked Swans swam. And at the far end of the beach, the bleached bones of over a dozen small whales lay on the beach where they died. I felt like I was the first person who had seen them.

And as I walked, I had the radio on via my Walkman, so had the bizarre experience of road work news from central London as I walked this remote island in the South Atlantic.

And so my tour came to an end. I booked my seat on the trooper flight back home, sent my replacement mails with things he needed to bring and so on. Then on my penultimate night, the "closed door" list went up in the NAAFI showing that he had checked in, many of my friends joined me in sinking yet more cans of beer to celebrate.

The next day he arrived, as bewildered as I had been 123 days before. I took him to 12 Facility, showed hom to our room, his (my old) bed had new sheets and a clean duvet on. It was all his.

And the next day, after the night spent sleeping on an armchair, I went to the terminal to check in and board the plane. As soon as the door was closed, the RAF tried to see us bottles of spirits, as now e were leaving, they would treat us like adults again.

The one thing we craved in the Falklands was fresh milk. It was all long life there, so in the arrivals building at Brize there was a vending machine selling bottles of the white stuff. I drank two as Lyenham MT forgot to pick me up and I had to call them. All other bases in the UK managed to arrange things, except mine.

I got home two hours late, and after a good couple of days it became clear that things at home were wildly out of control. Estelle had not taken her insulin the whole time I was away, so there was 5 months supply in the fridge. But Matthew was out of control, stealing money from Estelle's purse, and doing what he wanted.

Some order was restored, but it was tense for a long time.

Matthew then developed a condition, probably psychological, where he would not use the toilet, so would soil himself. And not do anything about it. This caused huge ructions between us as I tried to push the psychological angle, and Estelle refused to believe that and pushed a medical reason.

A year later when I left her, it still wasn't sorted and Matthew, nearly 14 was wearing nappies.

Estelle and I drifted further apart. We argued, tried to spend time apart. I didn't help that upon my return I had a careers brief with the chief clerk and he told me because of an incident in Germany, I wasn't eligible for promotion, and so should consider my options.

I took a day release course in technical authorship at Swindon College; a friend had did it the previous year and enjoyed it, so it sounded interesting, so why not? The classes were scheduled for six hours, but rarely lasted more than three, after which we could use the college's computers to research projects online, on the new fangled internet.

Sometimes I would go to the cinema on the way home, so not get back till eight and Matthew was going to bed. That was the autumn on 1999. I had spent the summer working on detachment in Las Vegas. Four weeks of working and playing hard, trying to kill my liver.

So, in my mind I was thinking about what to do when I left the mob, and then I was called into OC Arm's office.

Oh, hello. You have been offered a promotion course after all, but you will need to sign on for an extra three years.

That changed things, and I would be alone back at RAF Cosford for the course's 11 month duration.

And if I passed, a 50% pay rise and a posting somewhere else. It was obvious to me that by the time that next posting came through I would be single again.

The week before my course started, I took Matthew on a week's holiday, leaving Estelle at home on her own.

I took Matthew to Minehead to Butlins, then two days in London so we could see the sights, visit some museums, see the Reduced Shakespeare Company's show, then drive up to Leeds to see the Royal Armouries Museum, then back home.

He was still messing himself, and by now could not stop even if he wanted. It was grim.

But one cold, damp morning just after Guy Fawkes night, I loaded the car with my kit, a computer, a portable TV and drive to RAF Cosford to being my fitter's course. A course, which in the end would change my life forever.