I met Little One in the pub for a hastily rescheduled Caliper Boy meeting. After K arrived we sat with Rizlas stuck to our foreheads asking questions like "am I American?" or "am I dead?" Turns out I was The Doctor. Who'd have thought? Dolly Parton just stared bewildered at Ricky Gervais. Then it hit me. I'm in the pub, again, not writing, flat broke, and now with someone else's name on my forehead, feeling there's nowhere else to go, not wanting to be that person at work and not feeling at home at home. Is this how alcoholism starts?