This Man's Life: Fear and loathing in New York, while Fergal falls for Elizabeth
Drink is a curse. And certainly not, as George Bernard Shaw put it, the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life. Merely a curse.
I am sitting in a room in New York nursing an accursed hangover. The hangover is because I had a few whiskeys too many yesterday on the plane to get me over the fear of flying - ie dying - across the Atlantic.
The hangover is making me think the absolute worst and most negative thoughts imaginable about myself.