You know things are getting bad when you’re on your third large scotch and you start re-reading old e-mails – ones you’ve already read at least a dozen times, ones that come from a special person whose messages you leave in your inbox just because you like seeing the name there, ones that prompt you to read ever deeper between the lines even though you know that the assumptions you’re making could be hopelessly inaccurate – especially since you tend to make good assumptions when you’re in a good mood, and bad ones when you’re feeling negative.
And you know things are getting bad when you’re tired through having been woken two hours prematurely by workmen next door, and the fact that you’ve had a stressful day which has kindly donated even more reasons to feel anxious, but you can’t go to bed because you fear you might miss something. Like an e-mail from the special person, for example. (For example? Right.) ‘Just one more scotch, then I’ll go to bed.’ Eventually you do. Discontented, because your inbox still only has old messages in it.
Helen says I need a dog.