I arrive home and I sigh because the pot that is supposed to support a plant at the front door holds instead a floral-patterned umbrella that I couldn’t find earlier this morning on my way to work. My clothes are wet and my shoes squelch from my socks. I peer through the sitting-room window and I can see my children’s junk on the sofa, laundry is in a pile and the whole mess signifies for me the end of yet another week. A weaker man would have lost his cool by now. I am determined not to become that man.

In a place far away from here I would probably be very happy. This is my mantra, my way of controlling my wishful thinking. It allows me to imagine my escape from the blot that is my work life. I am a failed artist, but more than that, I am living in a land filled with suits and I feel condemned. No number of after-work pints can fix it. It works for the rest of the gang, they enjoy the bollox talk about what an ogre Graham our boss is. It’s an insecurity thing: we have collectively denounced him as being an asshole. There is something about him coming from the Midlands that makes him a nasty piece of work, at least that’s what we think. I have consumed four pints and it has oiled my tongue slightly, taken the edge off things for now, but the problem is that once I’ve had four I need the fifth. The fifth is where it’s at. But instead, I have a repeat episode of Grand Designs on the television, and my children’s Slam Attax wrestling collector cards and other shit all over the floor.

Did you have a good day? Jenny asks.

It was grand, I say. That’s what I always say.

Her face has that look. I’m wondering if she’s been at the pills again. I don’t know what she takes but I understand it’s got something to do with anxiety. She pops them to help her sleep. I don’t like it, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about it. She consumes other pills to help her stay awake. I don’t like that either, but I keep that to myself. She’s asleep when she ought to be awake and she’s awake when she ought to be asleep. It’s as if her body has lost its rhythm.

When she asks me what she should do about the pills, which she often does, I am at a loss.