I usually (well, always) talk to Mummy on a Wednesday evening for fifteen minutes or so.
I go to bed around ten, read for half an hour and then put the light out. I don’t have trouble sleeping, as a rule.
On Fridays, I don’t get the bus straight after work but instead I go to the Tesco Metro around the corner from the office
and buy a margherita pizza, some Chianti and two big bottles of Glen’s vodka.
When I get home, I eat the pizza and drink the wine. I have some vodka afterward.
I don’t need much on a Friday, just a few big swigs. I usually wake up on the sofa around 3 a.m., and I stumble off to bed.
I drink the rest of the vodka over the weekend, spread it throughout both days so that I’m neither drunk nor sober.
Monday takes a long time to come around. My phone doesn’t ring often—it makes me jump when it does—
and it’s usually people asking if I’ve been mis-sold Payment Protection Insurance.
I whisper “I know where you live” to them, and hang up the phone very, very gently.
No one’s been in my flat this year apart from service professionals;
I’ve not voluntarily invited another human being across the threshold, except to read the meter.
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