Ordinary morning, people doing what they do.
Sudden raised voice cutting through the low level noise that fills the centre .
My feet do that thing where they take me towards somewhere I know the rest of me doesn't really need to go, my head tells me this more than once.
The voice carries up the corridor followed by a softer one, explaining the present situation but in a tone that suggests it's aware that this conversation is going to be mostly one way.
I'm in the door way by now and can now see the owner of the voice that's being raised. A big furry Russian Tank Commanders hat sits atop a small red blotchy face, an angry imp of a man meets my stare, half in and half out of his chair.
"What can you do for me. I mean, what can you do for me"? Full on slur and pointing, demanding an answer.
It's been a while since we've had a "kick off". The mixture of frustration, breaking of the daily living in the pub based routine and a fair bit of drink all rolled into one tight malignant little ball. Welcome to the world as seen through the eyes of the alcoholic long term unemployed. I'd like to put it a different way, make it sound softer but what's the point. My colleague is informing him that nothing is going to be done, not today, not while he's like this.
Again "What can you do for me"? followed by a clapping of his hands, as if to bring home his point. Then a question"Who's that"? as beady red eyes semi focus on me. He leaves his seat and is suddenly standing between us.
We then coerce, via pleasant , reassuring talk and subtle hand co ordination, leading him away from the rest of the group, towards the stairs and the outside world. He still wants to know what we can do but now he's a bit rattled.
"What can you fucking well do for me? I'll tell you what, nothing, you're fucking useless all of you"!
Mumbling and stumbling, we continue this stale beer fumed, drunken ranting waltz until we're down the stairs and almost at the doors. He seems to realise this and starts again with his angry, hesitant and looped enquiring . I tell him that he needs to go home and come back when he feels better. I don't say what I want to say, that we can't do anything until he stops doing this to himself. Nothing until he want's to end his affair with the bottle. None of that comes out.
For now, we wait until he loses his thread, a gentle push and he's out into the early Spring sunshine.
For now.
Sudden raised voice cutting through the low level noise that fills the centre .
My feet do that thing where they take me towards somewhere I know the rest of me doesn't really need to go, my head tells me this more than once.
The voice carries up the corridor followed by a softer one, explaining the present situation but in a tone that suggests it's aware that this conversation is going to be mostly one way.
I'm in the door way by now and can now see the owner of the voice that's being raised. A big furry Russian Tank Commanders hat sits atop a small red blotchy face, an angry imp of a man meets my stare, half in and half out of his chair.
"What can you do for me. I mean, what can you do for me"? Full on slur and pointing, demanding an answer.
It's been a while since we've had a "kick off". The mixture of frustration, breaking of the daily living in the pub based routine and a fair bit of drink all rolled into one tight malignant little ball. Welcome to the world as seen through the eyes of the alcoholic long term unemployed. I'd like to put it a different way, make it sound softer but what's the point. My colleague is informing him that nothing is going to be done, not today, not while he's like this.
Again "What can you do for me"? followed by a clapping of his hands, as if to bring home his point. Then a question"Who's that"? as beady red eyes semi focus on me. He leaves his seat and is suddenly standing between us.
We then coerce, via pleasant , reassuring talk and subtle hand co ordination, leading him away from the rest of the group, towards the stairs and the outside world. He still wants to know what we can do but now he's a bit rattled.
"What can you fucking well do for me? I'll tell you what, nothing, you're fucking useless all of you"!
Mumbling and stumbling, we continue this stale beer fumed, drunken ranting waltz until we're down the stairs and almost at the doors. He seems to realise this and starts again with his angry, hesitant and looped enquiring . I tell him that he needs to go home and come back when he feels better. I don't say what I want to say, that we can't do anything until he stops doing this to himself. Nothing until he want's to end his affair with the bottle. None of that comes out.
For now, we wait until he loses his thread, a gentle push and he's out into the early Spring sunshine.
For now.
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