Day One hundred and thirty seven - Wrong

By now, if I say 'I had a plan', I hope you'll undestand that that meant what I really had was a badly thought out plan, or just, plainly the wrong plan. My plan was this : we would be getting a job as soon as we could, so we could then think about moving to somewhere beter than we were. For that we'd look for jobs online as much as we could, go to every job agency we could find, or scour the streets, as it were, for a job. Did we? Did we bollocks. But the worst part of this plan was that - and as I thought that we could find a job at any given moment - I amde it a point that we bought our passes every week. Even thpugh there were whole weeks where we barely left the house. Oh, sometimes we went to central London, sure, but most often our trips were just to the supermarket. So that meant that we were haemorrhaging money, what with our rent, which wasn't cheap by any stretch of the imagination, plus the travel expenses every week - expenses that were wholly unnecessary - and money we were spending on food.

Out first few weeks there weren't easy, and they started showing some well known stress signs - we loved each other, but we just didn't know how to live with one another. And that would often lead to us not liking each otehr very much. But shortly after we arrived there, it was my birthday. Now, precisely one year before, I'd decided to not drink a drop of alcohol, because on my birthday that year I'd gotten so drunk that I almost didn't funcion the following day. But I was ready to drink again, so me and Silvia loaded up on beer, and Catherine made a guest appearance, bringing with herlself a bottle of Jack Daniels. So the three of us got well and proper drunk, and I always thought that I missed out on a chance for a threesome withe the girls - I mean, there werev some clear signs and bidy language that indicated that it could, indeed, be on the table. Well, more likely on the bed. But you know what I mean. What I know is that there was no universes in which I could go ahead with such a thing, even if I wanted it. And I didn't, not anymore. After Catherine made to leave, we took her to the nearest tube station, but on the way we made one final pit stop at a pub - just to have one last drink. One last shot of whisky. And that, my friends, was that. If I thought I had it under control up to that point, then that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

After we'd returned home from dropping off Catherine, me and Silvia had savage sex - I feel for the other tenants who had to listen through the whole thing - and after that we crashed together... then the throwing up started. For hours on end, I retched everything I had inside me. The next day, I felt so, so bad that I decided not to have a drink for three whole years. Bullshit, a couple of days later I was already dinking again.