REDEMPTION

~ sober or die ~

"Lord have merceh!" as Big Jim Potts would have it

"Time for some redemption songs," quoth Dickie Wells (whom I rather wish i had here as wing man as i wrestle with the devil, plucking at my sleeve and whispering his evil in my ear)

"You can't stay drunk forever, you're either going to sober up, or die."

Amen, Ricardo, amen.

I'm alone in the house. Really finally destructibly alone surrounded by booze

Booze we had before

Booze Pete brought

Booze others brought as condolenzio

It's cold, it's very silent and it's lonely. It's also utterly familiar.

1425hrs ~ yep, on the dot.

Here's how it would go: mum in garden, i sneak the first campari or G&T or whatever. Fat pack of cigs at hand and window open to the chill to let the breeze dilute the baccy pong. First hint of mum coming in to make lunch, i'm up and suggest a suitable drink, which she accepts.

As her health deteriorated, same routine but checking on her for requests for soup or tea. Not so easy with the smoke drifting down the corridor towards her room, but you know what? I dont think she sweated the small stuff: I tried so hard to look after her that I dont think she gave a damn about my little treats of boozerie. Enough on her plate heading for the Promised Land to worry about my own choice of sled down that slippery slope.

Lord have mercy.

Alone. Gates closed. No danger of footfall down the corridor, quick hide of the bottle by my left foot, out of sight below the desk.

The body clock is chiming and grinding. The clock on the wall isnt signaling anything.

"Sam, help me. Isnt your mistress sending signal? Bite, attaque, leap up and send the bottles skidding crashing to the hard kitchen tiles.

I take up the guitar and plunk for distraction but it's not there.

Isnt one meant to be able to pick up the phone and call yer buddy? "Hey it's me-" 'Yeh, me too. Talk to me.'

Whooh, it's hard. I walk Sam and me around the property and note the raking that's needed and the where the shredding must go. Distraction. I'm going to need some cigarettes and no mum to look disapproving: 'Must you go out now? Lunch is nearly ready; just for your cigarettes?'

I suppose this is when it's useful to have Someone to kneel to; stand before the King.

Aiyah - difficult except the sniveling organism is going 'whats difficult? over there, easy, just the one, dont have to go beserk. Police yourself now. Easy.'

Not easy. Get down on my knees and pray-yay. Needles and pins-uh. Needles and pina colada, more like.

Don't want to die. Not so soon. Not so predictably.

Become that pathetic bloated figure stumbling around, life n soul of the bar. Stagger off into the night, weaving n waving, three goes to fit the key to the car lock, everyone watching as the car lurches and not-quite misses the bin and an approaching car honks and the barflies go back to their mojitos and shake their heads sadly.

Sozzled into that good night.