For once, (not the first time, if I am honest) I am glad of my raging hangover. I drink an Irish coffee at 9:50am. I am glad because Simon admitted to me, in the last, awful bar we were in, his infidelity to Debbie. The man had been in danger of seeming okay in my eyes. The father figure I might grow to like.
“Twice, she caught me,” he said.
The other times?
“Many, many times” he says.
I realise I need to get drunk because the truth hurts.