Three weeks! Doesn't sound like much in the scheme of things and bugger all in comparison to the rest of the world (I am reading Professor Hawkins' 'A Brief History of Time') but to me it is an awe inspiring achievement the keen significance of which is only slightly dulled because I have found it so ridiculously easy.
Dear old Dr Abel, the man who since I met him had been warning me of my imminent departure if I failed to cut down on the booze and cigarettes has been visiting me frequently (even my office provided no sanctuary) and when he heard I was back from Kenya and Dubai, was here the next day (today) to check on me. Having enjoyed a hefty lunch and one of my last bottles of decent wine, he is now sleeping it off in one of the guest bedrooms. Heal thyself, physician...
He and Kieren, who were evidently worried that such a sudden end to a constant and significant intake of alcohol would leave me dribbling and screaming in a foetal ball in some corner of the closet, respectively advised me to take Diazapam or a collection of vitamin and other drugs resembling an exploded Smarties bag but I am sure neither are disappointed to learn that I require no supplements of any kind.
Exactly why this should be, I have no idea and shall not question my good fortune either. I am happy and the family, as well as those who still care about me appear ecstatic. This is all the support I need. I shall not let them down.
This is, I admit, a very brief post but what more should I say? Count yourself lucky, dear reader, had I been a real case, you would have had to endure page after page of self recrimination and the ravings of a paranoid schizo...
Now, if you will excuse me, I must spray a whole can of Sheltox into the bedroom to kill all the little green men with horrible teeth and long, deformed claws that are waiting for me under the bed.
