It’s midnight, Sunday is just about to
begin and I’m next up. I look with anxiety at a group of young men behind me
and wonder what their reaction will be. One of them is in the middle of a
shaggy dog joke.
“And for you?”, the shop assistant’s voice
is impatient. He won’t let me muse for too long and slow down turnover on
the best night of the week for his business, a 24h off-licence.
“2 bottles of lager…”, I cut the sentence
short, hoping the guy will somehow guess the rest and save me embarrassment. But he
doesn’t and his hand reaches for the good kind of lager, which is – for me - the
wrong kind.
“… alcohol-free, please.” I close my eyes
expecting the worst. And the queue bursts out laughing – at the punch line of
the joke (I’ve been so tense I don’t get it).
I grab the bottles barely paying for them, hang my head low in shame and sneak out of the shop like the worst kind of drunk. That I once was.
PS Don't ever let alcoholism come between you and your drink and ruin a happy union.
I grab the bottles barely paying for them, hang my head low in shame and sneak out of the shop like the worst kind of drunk. That I once was.
PS Don't ever let alcoholism come between you and your drink and ruin a happy union.
