Blackouts were nothing new. Every night is a blackout, really. I rarely have any memory of either falling asleep on the sofa or of making my way to bed later. If I had been out drinking alone, a blackout was not uncommon. I avoided one of the pubs near home because the landlord had taken against me after a couple of incidents. Nothing violent or disgusting, just pathetic. One time I had simply fallen asleep, and it had – I was later told – been difficult to rouse me. Another time I had become rigidly drunk, literally paralytic, mannequin drunk, and had to be guided from the premises by the proprietor with a degree of physical exertion. Spirits had been involved. Then, some time later, one of the regulars clocked that I was still outside, rooted to the same spot on the pavement where I had been deposited, staring up into the sky, or at the tall Victorian houses all around, ‘as if you were waiting for your fucking space ship to come back’, the landlord observed, without amusement.

A man can get a reputation that way. I never liked that particular pub: under-populated, over-lit, sinister. Suspiciously durable furniture. A man can get a beating that way. A proper pub beating must be coming, there’s an inevitability to it. I had done well to avoid it. Shortly after that second incident, a couple of hundred pounds was stolen from my bank account. It’s impossible to be sure how or why this happened, but I believe my card details were taken that night in the pub.

I am more careful in the pub at the end of the street. I keep my patterns there conspicuously normal. A pint, maybe two or three, over the Sunday papers or after work. Never a really heavy session.

Often, an alcoholic will go to considerable effort to avoid being seen drinking. Before I became a drunk, I used to go out and get drunk with work colleagues. It happened often. Now, I might go out after work, but I will never get drunk. I will drink conspicuously little. I can’t take the risk of letting go. Indeed, I don’t like to go out with people from the magazine, because – a few sniffs aside, a bottle or three, barely enough to blunt the edge – I’ll essentially have to abstain. So I refuse, or leave early. A few of them must regard me as a lightweight or a bed-by-Newsnight sort. In fact I am going home to get the evening started.

I really should do some work. I took the full can I had found on the floor and used it to refill my fresh can. I did this over the sink, not risking more damage to the carpet, and felt very thrifty and houseproud. A little foamed over, and I carefully ran a tap over my hand and wiped down the can to avoid stickiness.