ALEXANDER
My throat is dry as i opt to tell this sad f*****g tale.
I can’t say it’s a pleasant confession. The last time I told this story it cost me my marriage – the final dying scraps of the sham it was anyway.
I’d made a note to myself in the aftermath – never f*****g talk about it.
But I’m drawing a line through that now.
“My parents are pieces of s**t,” I tell her. “I used to feel sorry for my mother, putting up with all my father’s f*****g crap all the time. The women, the late nights, the work meetings that ran on until the early hours most days. I thought she was naive. I thought she turned a blind eye to all his seedy outlets because she was scared of losing him. I thought that’s why she drank herself into oblivion every f*****g evening before I’d even finished my dinner.”
