Catch up with a former colleague at Gordons wine bar by Embankment. He now writes for a drinks magazine and he tells me about his punishing work schedule, which includes malt whisky tasting on the Orient Express, tours of France's top vineyards and flights to Vegas to drink gin flavoured with buttercups. It is quite a step up for a man who used to keep a bottle of Grant's vodka in his top drawer. In return I tell him about my lack of social life, cash, job satisfaction, sleep, energy and hope. He orders more wine. I wake with rioja-stained lips and halloween hair.
Hide behind new £1 sunglasses and stumble to Ladbrokes to put bets on the Grand National. The place smells of stale beer and armpits and is filled with grave-looking grey-faced men. There are three paper plates by the counter filled with chocolate chip cookies and crinkle-cut crisps. I wonder if this spread has been laid on especially for the Grand National to give a party feel. I place £1 bets on Arbor Supreme (following 'expert' advice from the papers), Dream Alliance (owned by some nice toothless Welsh people who work at Asda) and Palypso De Creek (because it has a silly name). They/I lose.
On the way home, I buy a strawberry milkshake from Mcdonalds. I peel off a sticker on the cup which reveals I have won an apple pie. Is my luck changing?
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