The paper tore and suddenly I had a finger up my arse. Could the day get any better?
The cloud had thickened, the sky taking on the colour and texture of every blanket Her Majesty had ever issued me.
She had become the physical embodiment of my responsibility and I couldn’t help but resent her for it
It was good to find things hadn’t changed. Including, it turned out, my baser instincts.
All I could taste was oak and smoke and acid reflux
He’s reached the age where his nostalgia is not for my childhood, but his own.
She told some story about single casks and small batch distillers and blah blah blah whisky pointlessness. There’s nothing worse than a connoisseur. I sat and smoked and sipped my drink as she went on, filling the air with vapid small talk and clouds of smoke.
I wished a million things as she answered the door. That I was three stone lighter. That I could still bench ninety kilos. That my hair was sun streaked blond, not Just For Men grey. That my face was more Beckham than Bagpuss.
And I wished the last twenty years had brought us together, not pulled us apart.
It had become a litany of little selfishnesses that I just couldn’t take any more
I was the kind of fucked that holds it together in polite company because polite company doesn’t understand quite how fucked fucked can be.