I don't worry about my drinking when all it jeopardises is a job. I've lost a few through it, including the very good one I came to Bristol for, in which I could now be on at least 30K for doing little. A friendship, however, is more serious.
As is often the case, I'd already had a couple before I started work on Wednesday afternoon at The Big House. Feeling too confident of my position there, I offer the judge's clerk a glass of wine when she comes in and then overstep the mark by pouring one out for myself.
Sexy Ex Boss comes into the room, makes some remark about dinner, and leaves. Me and the clerk jabber away until it's time for me to start sorting things out for the evening meal.
I'm stood at the dumb waiter and Sexy Ex Boss comes up. "Looby! You mustn't have a drink with the clerks. You mustn't drink at all. People have got sacked for that!"
I trudge smilingly through the treacle of my shift, desperate to go home. "I'm sorry about tonight. It was just a spur of the moment thing when T--- came down." "Ok, we'll have a chat tomorrow x".
I was worried: what kind of "chat"? I don't give a shit about the job. It's making things difficult for Sexy Ex Boss I'm worried about. It was a warm evening, and I collected three for a fiver from Tesco and went and sat in Castle Park. I started chatting with a Bulgarian and a man from Zimbabwe who share my rung at the bottom of the catering workers' ladder.
After an hour or so I took my leave of my new friends. With the clarity that alcohol bestows, I decided that I would shorten my journey home by a few seconds by going across the slippery wet grass instead of walking to the path.
I came to in an intimate embrace with my scooter on the wet earth as peals of Afro-European laughter rang about me. Adrenaline got me home and into bed. I went to turn over in the night, and gasped with a pain democratically shared between my groin, my right shoulder and my right toe.
The following day I thought I'd walk it off by going to our de luxe shopping centre, white bread soft to the last slice. I edged along my road with the walls for support and a slowness that irritated me. I rang SEB and said I couldn't come in to work. I said with little exaggeration that I could hardly walk. She was driving; she was pleasant, short, it's OK looby, let us know.
The following day I scootered down to my local and chatted to Mel on the phone for a bit. Hayley then rang saying they'd had a back payment bonanza and wanted to take me out to a couple of gin bars. Not really my thing but I was sick of feeling sorry for myself. I lopsidedly got back on the scooter and met them outside a place where there was a copper still and middle class couples who can afford drinks around ten pounds a pop.
The cocktails were delicious, like sorbets; the two brothers running it were the interesting in their explanations, and Hayley's boyfriend paid for everything. They had their eyes on us, not our usual types, might do a runner. We moved on to the second bar and sat outside. They went inside to order. I nipped in for what must have been under a minute to tell them what I wanted.
A big thump on the window. Someone at the next table was pointing at a man making off with my scooter. I chased him ineffectually, painfully, an invalid, my hi-vis vest swishing, and saw him ride my scooter away irretrievably off over Bristol Bridge.
