The money in your pocket

          ‘I had no idea it was this bad,’ I said, keeping up the same flat effect, while chaffinches flitted around a bush outside the expansive office window. My mind wandered, ruminating before the pretty social worker calmly enticed me back into the room.

          ‘The money in your pocket is going to be a problem isn’t it?’ Her voice was unambiguous and as she spoke her green, avian gaze never wavered from mine. I remembered how inanimate and lifeless eyes are.

          ‘Are you confident that you won’t buy alcohol before your son’s visit?’

          ‘I had no idea it was this bad.’ I needed more time to process her questions. Even this early my hands were clammy. Unclenched, my fingers would have been trembling. And anyway, she was wrong. Certainly my son preferred me sober; but he wasn’t frightened of me. I tried to return the hawk-like stare for a sufficient amount of time but couldn’t bear the pain it inflicted in my withering soul.

            ‘How would you feel about leaving the money with me until later?’

            The moment had arrived and I had to smile at cornering myself with insincere honesty.

            ‘That is a cracking idea,’ I said, regaining my flat composure. It took a few moments of inner turmoil to finally turn out my pockets and hand over £32 and a battered and blue debit card.

            Ambling towards home, I calculated anxiously, lips parting in dry protest. When there were no observers in all directions I pulled a pocket-sized bottle from my coat and finally took my first drink of the day.
            .