Hunting Unicorns [antikvár]

daniel Mj mother and father drank. Water, whiskj, wine. It was all the same to them. Anj time, anyplace, anywhere. Curiously they never appeared drunk. Instead they existed in a semi-inebriated world, never allowing themselves to fall below a certain level of intoxication as though to do so would be bad manners — like appearing at brea^ast not quite fully clothed. They bad two children. Two small boys who watched their parents drink. Both grew up to be deeply, affected by this habit. That is to say Rory became a teetotaller, and I, an alcoholic. The first time I took myself off to a meeting I wrote this down — just in case it was the sort of place where you were pressured into a confession, but it's not like that here. Your peers don't pressure you so much as bore you into submission. The first meeting was so inexcusably dull I swore it would be the last and it would have been had it not been for the eleventh-hour appearance of the fantastically pretty girl. Some gorgeous accident left the chair next to me vacant and one whiff of her scent; earthy, flowery, sold me on the merits of A A and had there been a year's contract I