This is my second evening this week of self-medication through getting absolutely shit-faced. It started off very badly when my train left London 15 minutes late and arrived 20 minutes late, then despite my needing to be home 25 minutes earlier because the missus had to be at a PTA meeting, I was in the local Tesco buying a bottle of wine because the one remaining bottle at home was clearly not enough. So, I’m still hyper as fuck and I raced home despite being completely unable to focus on the road or the other users thereof. I bowled in, did a tag with the wife in the driveway as she dashed out of the house and she asked me if I could make the kids lunches. Fuck. That is precisely the last thing I can do. I’ve been thinking all day how I’m going to get home and get shit-faced, now there’s this RESPONSIBILITY. My face sinks so obviously that she spots it through my motorbike helmet. I get in, eat a very small but extremely delicious pizza the kids made the night before and take my newly purchased bottle of wine and a special glass (the only remaining one from a set, taken from the back of the cupboard) upstairs. I have no idea why I’m using this glass. I put the kids to bed over an exceedingly extended period and my daughter tells me that daddies are supposed to laze about on beds with children and tickle their backs so I do this and feel that I have fulfilled my duties with honours. I rub some cream on my youngest son who has eczema, put them all to bed except the eldest who’s eleven and I decide that he should watch a Come Fly With Me, which he enjoys very much. By the time this finishes - 25 minutes after his bedtime - I have drunk over half a bottle of wine and decide that we should watch Highlander, one of my favourite films of all time. I have not yet made the lunches my wife asked me to make and nor am I currently capable of doing so and nor, indeed, am I heading into any state of being capable. I expect her to be home quite late and firmly believe that my eldest and I can watch Highlander without fear of being in trouble for it, despite the fact that it will finish probably two hours or so after his bedtime. Unfortunately, my missus arrives home about two hours earlier than I expected and she is CROSS. I want to curl up and protect my happy head form her crossness, but that would look odd and I can’t have her or my son see that I’m already CRAZY. So she goes away briefly then returns with a glass to share some wine with me, and I have a bit of an OH DEAR moment when she goes to pour some but finds that I’ve actually drunk the whole bottle already, despite the fact that she only left two hours ago and I’ve spent at least half an hour of that putting he kids to bed. She storms off to the bedroom with her laptop and really poor mobile broadband (because I managed to fuck up the broadband, although technically it wasn’t my actual fault, I still, somehow, haven’t sorted it out yet) and I tell my eldest he needs to go to bed and he gives me a hug because I’m the cool dad who lets him stay up late and then I affix the screw top from the wine bottle to my left eye, and don one of the kid’s school jumpers as a hat and drum on my thigh and chest for 20 minutes solidly. I realise this is not what one would generally refer to as ‘normal’ and I wonder if I’m actually mad, or if I’m just trying it on like one tries on clothes in a clothes shop. I am unable to decide. I drink more wine, affix the bottle cap to my nose and wrap the arms of the jumper under my chin and I believe I look rather like Lawrence of Arabia. I should go to bed. Tomorrow is mufty day at work and despite the fact that I should maintain some level of professional decorum, I will undoubtedly bowl into work looking like an extra-hairy Russell Brand, only considerably less good looking.