Today the better half has been at the sauce a bit too much (a couple of bottles of red in less than two hours).
I was asked to provide a substantial meal (the munchies I guess) so having pre-prepared the pizza bases I went into pizza action.
I dished out two slices for him indoors while I attended to my own share.
There were cries of non-specific concern coming from the living room while I rolled the pizza wheel.
I asked if he wanted anything, a sharper knife perhaps or some kitchen roll so he could use his fingers but instead I got a slurred remark about olives looking like eyes.
He really wanted me to sit next to him while he flicked through clips of I Claudius (partly prompted by my searching for the same while making a point over on the Star Wars discussion forum).
As I sat down his knife slid on the plate, knocking an untouched pizza slice to the floor and he began to wail for the whole thing to thrown in the bin (including the slices I hadn't begun to eat).
He has stormed upstairs in a miffed state, he called me up once and then told me to go back down again.
Booze really isn't worth the trouble (author's message).
It numbs you from whatever is on your mind for a while but those things are still there when the poison wears off.
I'm not for prohibition myself (even if it did inspire Bugsy Malone). I'm also not for legislating for the for the lowest common denominator but sometimes I do fantasise that drinking booze at home was made illegal and that there were booze dens with medical staff that would not allow the patrons to leave the place until they have sobered up. The same goes for whatever substantially sanity altering substance takes your fancy.
Cheap supermarket booze is like handing out loaded guns at a conference for suicidal extroverts.
I now have a cold pizza which I have no longer the appetite to touch and I'm downstairs on my tod and my squeeze is pished and pished off upstairs and probably close to talking to God on the big white telephone.