I come home from a weekend in Italy, repack and head straight back out again on a band tour – Southampton, Birmingham, Cambridge; places where, as far as I’m concerned, the restrictions of dry January do not apply. My month without alcohol has been so successful that I feel able to wrap it up a few days ahead of schedule. My wife, however, is staying the course.
On the afternoon of the 31st, she sends me a text: “Last night I drank a litre of tonic water and watched 3 episodes of Spiral.” I send her a picture of the beer I’m having with my lunch.
I arrive home in the middle of the night. When I wake the next morning, my wife is already downstairs, waiting to deliver a lecture about how much easier her life is when I’m not around.
“I just make plain food that everyone likes,” she says. “Then I eat chocolate and watch Spiral.”
“That’s what you do when I’m here,” I say. “That’s all we’ve done for a month.”
“I love Spiral,” she says. “Why is it so good?”
“The secret is that you can’t tell whether it’s good or not,” I say. “Because it’s French.”
“Is it wrong that I fancy the old judge?” she says.
“Yes it is,” I say. “It’s very wrong.”
“I don’t care,” she says.
“Do we have any wine?” I say. “Should I go and get some?”
The middle one is home from university for the weekend, and our first mealtime together has a familiar combative air.
“So what do we think about bitcoin?” my wife says.
“It’s basically a Ponzi scheme,” says the oldest.
“Only in the way that all currencies are Ponzi schemes,” says the middle one.
“No, they aren’t,” the oldest one says.
“Well, yeah they are,” the middle one says. My wife turns to me.
“Can you stop them,” she says.
“You started it,” I say.
“I don’t really care about the answer,” she says. “I just can’t talk about Spiral with anyone because you’re so far behind.”
“I’ll catch up,” I say.
“A classic pyramid,” says the oldest.
“Like the pound,” says the middle one.
“You’ll need to catch up quick,” my wife says. “It’s the last two episodes tonight.”
“Tonight?” I say. “I can’t watch four hours of French police procedural in one day.”
“I can,” my wife says. “And I have.”
Later that afternoon I settle myself in front of the TV. A few minutes into episode nine of Spiral it becomes clear that I am going to have to go back and rewatch the last half of episode eight. At some point during the marathon, my wife walks in with her coat on.
“I’m going to the shop,” she says. “I’ve invited people round to watch the last two Spirals.”
“OK,” I say. “Will you get some beer?”
“It must be nice having me do everything for you,” she says.
“You said I had to do this,” I say. “I’m following your instructions.”
“So you can just lie on the sofa all day, eyes glued to the telly,” she says.
“I can’t really look away,” I say. “Because of the subtitles.”
“Who’s he?” she says, pointing.
“He’s the fence,” I say. “Who bought the stolen gold.”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “I get confused, because I’ve been watching series three and four at the same time.”
“I’m not sure it was a good idea for you to stop drinking,” I say.
“I don’t remember any of this,” she says, sitting on the arm of the sofa.
“The bad cops know about the bug in their car,” I say.
The old judge appears on the screen in closeup, looking confused and rueful.
“I know something about him that you don’t know,” my wife says. “But you’ll learn.”
“I haven’t really learned anything since you walked in,” I say, hitting pause. “I’m going to have to watch this bit all over again.”
“I’m going,” she says.
As soon as she leaves, I rewind and slip back into an exotic, seductive world where cops kiss each other hello at murder scenes. Within seconds, I am fast asleep.
