Two days of brandy.

In the kitchen, my hands shaking. The hangover had yet to start. The floor was rolling under me and I could only gather every third word Helen was saying. It must have been 9 o'clock. I was stinking drunk and could've peeled wallpaper with my breath and I wasn't sure she had noticed. She was talking about a mutual friend, then another and another, till it felt there were thirty people having coffee in the kitchen with us. My mind's not right. My brain was kissed with an insanity and only by clasping Helen's arse could anything be salvaged, and so I lunged at her. My God! She pushed me off, splattering coffee all over my shirt. What are you doing...? I was staring at her, as if searching for answers, panting like a dog, perhaps dimly aware that dogs could be forgiven these things. Get away from me! The more I stared, the greater the space for her anger. I had to leave the room, quickly. But some slow awareness that I may have assaulted her prevented me moving. Oh fucking hell, she said. That felt like the height of her anger and so possibly if I carried on staring at her she would leave the room and, in a week or two, I could plead insanity. She walked out of the kitchen and Gareth came in. My best hope was to vomit over my shoes, so I did.