I found myself gazing towards the pint glass of famous stout raised in my right hand, seduced by its legendary black and white promissory power. There in the seizure of a Burroughs-like hallucination, triggered by extreme mid-winter fatigue or this grand occasion, I swore the frothy head wore the smile of a Cheshire cat.

The old Irish saying…of first the man takes the drink… was cartwheeling on a downward treadmill through my head, while tuning into the sparkling festive stars hanging over the spirit optics behind the bar as happy hour drinkers drifted into this twilight zone.

It was my first jar in nine, dry, months. My first time inside four walls of a drinking establishment in nine months of solitude, and sobriety.

And, charging pints with the Boy in celebration of nineteen earth strong years, followed by a welcome home slurp, so a fellowship of demons huddled round the adjacent table, thick as a thievery corporation.

Half a pint down, witnessing an Xmas office party goer posing for a laughter emoji photo, lying face down on the bar room floor clutching her empty wine glass and bottle, I immediately began speculating on which direction this night of the wheels-off-the-wagon might spiral.