We’ve reached the point in Dry January – a little more than halfway through – when the novelty of not drinking has worn off. It’s not even hard any more. My interest in alcohol has evaporated, along with my interest in doing things, talking to people and going outside. All I care about is TV and sugar. And the TV is running out.
“We’ve seen all these,” my wife says, scrolling.
“Go to catch-up,” I say. “We must have missed something.”
“I might have to send you out for some chocolate,” my wife says.
“Oh, I bought chocolate,” I say. “This morning.”
“What kind?” she says.
“All the kinds,” I say. “What’s on real telly?”
“Nothing,” she says.
“Try switching to the other box,” I say. My wife screams the name of the youngest one. A faint voice from upstairs shouts in reply.
“Come down here now!” my wife shrieks.
“I almost spent seven quid on a tub of ice-cream today,” I say.
“You didn’t,” my wife says.
“It wasn’t even a big tub,” I say. “But it was calling to me.” The youngest one appears.
“What?” he says.
“Switch us over to the other box,” she says, holding out three remotes. The youngest one sighs heavily, kneels in front of the TV and pulls a wire out of the back.
“Would this be a good time for a tutorial on how to do this yourself?” he says.
“We don’t want to learn,” I say. “We’re done learning.”
The next morning I am sent out to buy food for lunch, because the oldest has been invited over. I also buy five doughnuts, which I tell myself are for everyone, but I eat them all before anyone else is awake. The youngest one appears at midday.
“Buongiorno!” the radio says. “Come stai?”
“What is this?” the youngest says.
“It’s an Italian language podcast I found,” I say. “You just listen.”
“Sto bene,” the radio says. “Et tu?”
“I know more Italian than this,” the youngest says.
“This is episode one,” I say. “I accidentally listened to a bit of episode 40, which was, like, an Italian board meeting. So I’ve gone back to the beginning.”
“Benissimo!” the radio says.
“I thought you were done learning,” says the youngest.
“I haven’t learned anything yet,” I say.
“Skip ahead,” he says.
“Never!” I say. The oldest one arrives. He points to the tortoise, which is eating a lettuce leaf on the kitchen floor.
“Why is he up?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “He came out from under the washing machine three days ago.”
“Isn’t it too early?” he says.
“He must not know it’s still Dry January,” I say.
“He seems happy, though,” the youngest says.
“A bad omen all the same,” I say.
“Buona sera!” the radio says.
“Shut up,” says my wife, walking in and turning the radio off.
“Thank you!” the youngest says.
“Hi,” the oldest says.
“Welcome to the house of fun,” says my wife, pouring herself a glass of fizzy water. “Can we eat?”
After lunch, with the sun already setting, we sit down in front of the TV for a listless argument about what to watch. Eventually we settle on a black-and-white film neither of us has seen before, which is preceded by a stern warning from the FBI.
“I resent being told that piracy is not a victimless crime in reference to a movie that was made in 1949,” I say.
“The victims are all dead,” my wife says.
“Unless the implication is that I’m the victim,” I say.
“Hmm,” my wife says.
“Like, by committing piracy I’m failing to be my best self.”
“Shh,” my wife says. The credits finish. A large car pulls up in front of the revolving doors of a fancy hotel. The dog climbs into my lap and breathes heavily in my face. As a way of spending time, I think, this is just preferable to sitting under the washing machine until spring finally arrives.
“So you didn’t buy ice-cream?” my wife says.
“Oh, I bought ice-cream,” I say.
