Cocktails at Claridges

I never thought I would go to Claridges to drink cocktails with professor B. I never thought I would go to Claridges. I don’t think I particularly wanted to go to Claridges.

It was during the pandemic. When everything was on lockdown, and you weren’t supposed to travel anywhere unless you had a very good reason. I had a good reason — escaping the Underworld.

Escaping the Underworld was the reason I had my last alcoholic relapse, which was when I went to Claridges during lockdown with professor B.

It wasn’t much fun, I must admit. One of the things that was pretty compelling though, was that I was having an affair with someone I had absolutely worshipped for years. I’ve worshipped a fair few people, but the prof was the one of the only ones who did me the courtesy of disabusing me of my awe. I will be forever grateful to him for that.

By the time it occurred to me — that alcohol would help me along in my mission to finally nail Invisible on his cross — I was already pretty far along the about to have a relapse trajectory. If you want to know what is meant by “nail Invisible on his cross” please read my previous blog post called Love Letters to the Invisible Man (or something like that).

I was pretty far along the relapse trajectory because I had more or less stopped attending meetings. The meetings were driving me insane; the one Zoom meeting per week I was attending was driving me insane. So I stopped going.

I also stopped taking my medication. I don’t remember the exact rationale behind this action. It had, in my conscious mind, something to do with the professor. His approval perhaps. By the time I arrived in London for my date, I was under quite a bit of psychological pressure. I was off on my own on my weird kind of tangential psycho-spiritual quest.

I’ve got selfies from the night I went to Claridges, as well as pictures of the professor. Selfies in his ‘apartment’. His swish apartment. I loved the urban view from this open plan space. I made collages from this view. He let me take loads of shots saying only: “Just keep me out of it.”

I don’t know what would have happened if I had not drank that first bottle of wine with him on the day of our reunion (I hadn’t seen him for 17 years). Would we have had an affair? What if I had still be taking my anti-depressant and mood stabiliser? What if I had still being seeing my Transactional Analyst?

Perhaps I needed to do what I did. To complete something and to end it. Maybe I needed to escape the Underworld.

Published by unipolar2

I’m a writer living in Wales

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