Wine

I can deal with a lot of stuff after a few glasses of chardonnay, shiraz, pinot grigio, temparinillo, Diamond White. Like today, I transferred some money into mum’s account, to make up just enough to help pay the electricity bill, gas bill, council tax, the Blockbuster rental. She protests every month, telling me to save for that future house with the grandchildren she sees in her mind, with the boyfriend who’s lasted past uni. Sometimes, I think I pay up just to keep her distracted, just in case.

On the overground today, on that depressing but no-choice platform, the announcer told one hundred plus people waiting that the train would arrive in five minutes. With one minute to go, it arrived, overflowing like some fat snake. I stood at my personal invisible mark, the place that I knew meant the doors would open dead centre in front of me, that I would be entitled to first dibs on the two or three inches of space I’d find once on board. An old lady, maybe sixty, seventy, made her way through the crowd I felt pressing down on my rucksack. She stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder. She didn't look at me, but her body told me she’d seen me, but was getting on first anyway. When the train arrived and the doors opened, I shoved her and got on. There was an empty seat, a rarity, a miracle. I sat down. I didn't see her again for the whole journey, but that didn't make me feel any better. Or worse. I was hungover, man. I needed a seat.

I was hungover to hell when my boyfriend flopped on top of me at the end of a Friday evening after work. I did what was necessary, and it always feels as good as it should, if not a degree or two cooler than when we first started, after his persistence had paid off, and my insecurities had abated, after a few glasses of wine. Thing is, you can't drink on a healthy basis, like eating fruit or Activia, or drinking Yakult or soya milk. I’ve tried all those things, but all I feel is broke.

There’s a man over there. He’s looking at me. He’s looking at me the way men do, sometimes, if and when they feel like it, but not always. He looks like a poet. Orhan Pamuk writes like a poet. I have no idea what he looks like.

I like to have quarterly cry. That is, every two months or so, I go to bed late and bawl like a kid who’s just learned Santa is a fucking lie. I cry. And cry. Not out loud, of course. I’m 29. But my pillow gets soaked, and its cold from the wetness and then I sober up and feel better for a bit.

Mum’s not feeling well. What does that mean?

It’ll be morning soon. I can see it all tentative, like a cling film through my blinds. I'm as pissed as a skunk who did skunk. Ha ha. The wine was cheap, Tesco, but it was enough. My feet are tingling, on the verge of pins and needles. My chest feels stuffed with cotton wool. I texted my boyfriend but I can't remember what it said.

I won't drink tomorrow. Promise.