Champers alright for you, Pats?

Well, two bottles in (a Louis Roederer Brut Premier NV and another precious 1982 Winston Churchill), and I am unfashionably late, though ready. I am just listening to a few last songs, while I get my moneysworth of the pre-bought alcohol.

I decided… kindof… the other day, that I would (might) give away a lot of my booze. The rum could go to Tom, who would appreciate it, and much of the vodka to Dax. Those liqueuers which were past their best would simply be poured away.

I thought this in a moment of agony late at night, when I was convinced that another bout of heavy drinking would kill me for sure, and the only way to save myself was to empty my cupboards, in a faux-Buddhist orgy of self-denial. In fact, I’m not sure of the practicalities, or the ethics of giving away fatal quantities of addictive drugs, however legal, but I must save myself somehow.

I’ve made myself as presentable as I dare, and now I must face the fitties of the gym. There are many young, hot, cute men there… How can I bear it? What I would love is a friend I could talk to about this, but all I have is this diary. Time to go. Wish me luck.