So, on Sunday 10th August I attended the Focus 12 (aka "The Gulag") Annual Reunion and a Good Time was Had. It was nice to see a Several of my fellow zeks in attendance, all of whom appeared to be rated A1 at Lloyds. Not to mention most of the long-suffering and infinitely patient staff (enjoy your retirement, J!) and a horde of familiar faces from the recovery community in Bury St. Edmunds. A resounding Hurrah! for the arrival of (very) young Dylan, who will doubtless be giving his parents E & O sleepless nights before too long. And H, I trust you'll be fully restored to (very) Rude Health before too long.
Which leads me nicely to... Six months prior to the date of first drafting this post (for, unusually, I haven't typed this straight into BlogThing), I went shopping. Mostly for a few last-minute wossnames prior to spending three months in the wilds of East Anglia (readers may insert their own jokes here, if you don't mind). And a half-bottle of Scotch. It was only when the latter was run through the scanner at the checkout that I noticed it was actually a full-size bottle. At which point a Rational Human Being might have said "Oh, that's the wrong size. Might I swap it for the smaller version?"
No. No, I didn't.
The following day was my fiftieth birthday. I aten't had a drink since. And here is my new Shiny Thing:
|NEW shiny thing make everything all better, say clever science man yesterday|
I hadn't. Clearly the 87-point notice in the porch window reading "We do not buy goods or services at the door" does not stretch to recreational pharmaceuticals. Nor does the small-print suffix: "Now fuck off...". Not very serene, I know, but I am far from keen on being roused from my torpor to discuss changing my energy supplier, still less engaging with some itinerant substance-monger. Relax, sonny, I haven't called the Babylon. Well, not this time anyway.