Shame, Shame, Shame

Alcohol, ambition, and giving our power away

It’s a weekday in Autumn, 2008, and the world — my world — is ending.

I am wearing my Shame Trousers. Walking pyjamas. Mystery bottoms. I acquired them a few months ago, in time for festival season. Then, they were loose, slouchy, sitting below my belly button. Now, they are slightly less spacious. There’s a spare inch between my body and the waistband, where there used to be two. When I think about this — and I try not to — I rationalise it as a mystery of the universe, an unexplained phenomenon, something to do with the washing machine. Although, that begs a question. Have I ever actually washed these trousers?

The Shame Trousers are not business casual. Not even casual casual, really, because that might suggest they were appropriate for brunch, or Games Night. Yet I’m wearing them to the office, with an odd collection of vests, and some sort of cardigan. They are, to mix a metaphor, my hair shirt. I don’t deserve nice trousers, and I don’t have the coordination to organise any other outfit. I don’t remember showering, even though I definitely should have showered, after last night. I did something bad. Something disgusting. Something I cannot tell anyone about.

As long as I’m in the office, smiling, agreeing, refreshing my emails, pretending to type, I can try not to think about the…