‘Some days there seemed no choice, no other way of hiding. I had to get drunk, drunk to the point of oblivion, get drunk and pass out, hide in drunkenness and sleep. I’d get up, start drinking, eat, and go to bed. I’d get up, drink more, eat more, and go to bed. They were strange dissolute days, coloured by bad dreams, those dreamlike days I could never quite escape from. Someone came to visit and I was drunk and tried not to show it. He looked at me and his look decided something about me I could barely sense in myself. Later I walked around the streets looking in at the tidy flats and felt like a bum. Exposed.’


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