opened the cupboard door and took out the whisky bottle. He winced when he saw the level. He tried to think; he'd bought it Saturday morning and today’s Thursday? Well no; it was Wednesday night really.
He was drinking too much. He was having too many mornings where he had woken up with no memory of the night before. There were too many blanks. He should just put the bottle away.
He glanced back into the cupboard. The large plastic bottle of paracetamol was there, sitting there on the shelf quite innocently, a short rattle away.
He had told himself several times to throw it away but it seemed to be too much of a waste for him to take the step.
Every time he saw the bottle though, at times like these, lonely bleak nights with just himself and old TV programmes for company, he found himself imagining taking them, one after another, rehearsing how it would be done, wondering how it would feel.
He had heard about what could go wrong though. If you didn't do it right, you lived and got irreparable liver damage. Life would be even worse.
He shut the cupboard firmly and poured half of what was left in the whisky bottle into the glass and added half as much water from the tap.
Blogpost
I was watching and listening tonight. I often do it, though all too few realise it. That is usually to their cost; it is what gives me the edge over the pathetic morons I work with.
They were chattering self-importantly. It was time to let them talk, let them have their say. The wine had loosened their tongues. In vino veritas.
I knew they would say what they truly thought, they would let their dirty little secrets slip. It might not be anything important but knowledge is power, it always gives me that that little edge, the crack that can be levered open. So although I could hold court, although I have the power to command I chose to listen. My strength used against their weakness.
And at least I could enjoy the wine properly, could appreciate every nuance. Wine should be savoured, admired in the glass, one should swirl the deep red liquid to warm it gently, then take a careful sip, inhaling the bouquet as much as the taste. I could not help but sneer as one of the associates sank half of a glass of it at once. What a waste; they might as well be drinking some of that dreadful Beaujolais Nouveau rather than the premier cru that I had bought for them.
They should be grateful they were allowed to share this tiny part of my life, my style, enjoy my exquisite taste. It matters not, this was part of the ritual, part of the strategy; to let them in, let them a little closer, be part of my club, the circle of trust.
Trust? Hah, they are idiots, none of them are really in my league, no one is really going to threaten my domain so why, you might ask, play the game? Is it worth it?
Oh yes, the game is always worth it even if the stakes aren’t as high as they once were. I cannot ever relax, I always have to keep trying, I have to keep my mind exercised.
Sometime I wonder what I am doing here. Manchester is a young, modern, vital city. It has its wealth, it has status but it is not a world city. It isn’t a London or a New York or Paris, cities with ingrained class and wealth and power. It isn’t even a Frankfurt with its technocrat bankers or Dubai with its expatriate mercenary professionals living in an uneasy truce with the Arab family blood, only one layer away from tribal feudalism behind that gross façade of tasteless conspicuous wealth. No this is a second league city.
Second league, second rate.
But that doesn't make me second rate too. No.
Why I am here still makes me angry. It causes the acid to rise in my stomach, to churn and burn and mingle with smouldering anger. The bastards, the midgets who tried to judge me, they are contemptible; I will crush in my own time, humiliate them.
Yes I can dismiss that thought. It is laughable. Me? Second rate? Hardly. I am the big fish in this dirty little pond. A shark amongst minnows.
I remember looking around at the small fry around me, busy with their self-important little worlds.
If only they knew. They are scared of me now but if only