page 63

Taking Stock

In the early days of my sobriety, I made an intriguing discovery: if I simply pretended I'd downed a double gin, I could almost feel its sedative effects.

Abstinent for more than fifteen years, I've forgotten the magic of alcohol, forgotten its heat and radiance, forgotten why I followed its smoke-blackened banner for two long decades, my fealty unalloyed. Forgotten too my own capacity for exuberance. Forgotten how engrossing, How Absorbingly Interesting it is to Be Drunk!

I was once a guest of the Salvation Army. They ran a camp for inebriates in the Akatarawa Valley.

A courtly old piss-artist and Faulkner lookalike, Joe used a tortoiseshell cigarette-holder. 'I'd buy a case of whisky and send my wife to her sister's. An understanding woman, my dear Cath.'

Logging trucks and misty stands of pine. Jehovah in the amber beams of noon.

Tania chewed her nails, admitting to nothing. 'I miss my children. I don't know what I'm doing here and I miss my children.'