I sensed a change in our hitherto cordial relationship but was at a loss to understand why. He didn’t even say good-bye.
Annoyingly, it meant that I would have to go out again later to get my vodka.
Why couldn’t you just purchase it in the same way that you bought, say, milkto wit, at any shop at any time that it was open? Ridiculous.
I suppose it’s to ensure that alcoholics are protected from themselves for at least a few hours each day; although, rationally, that makes no sense.
If I were chemically and psychologically addicted to alcohol, I’d ensure I had a ready supply to hand at all times, buying in bulk and stockpiling.
It was an illogical law; really, what was the difference between buying vodka at ten past nine in the morning and at ten past ten?
Vodka is, for me, merely a household necessity, like a loaf of bread or a packet of tea.
The very best thing about it is that it helps me to sleep. Sometimes, when night comes, I lie there in the darkness
and I can’t prevent myself remembering: fear, and pressure, but mostly fear.
On nights like those, Mummy’s voice hisses inside my head, and another voice, a smaller, timid one, nestles in close to my ear,
so close that I can feel her hot, panicky breath moving across the tiny hairs that transmit the sound, so close she barely needs to whisper.
That small voice; it breaks apart, pleading: Eleanor, please help me, Eleanor... over and over and over again.
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