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  • He sat at his desk sweating under the strip lights that blinked as if sending out morse code.
    S.O.S. Help this guy. He's gone way too far this time.
    He was thinking pretty much the same thing as he replayed the 48 hours since he last sat here.
    Where had it all gone wrong? It was that third drink, damn it. That was the tipping point. There's a thin line between sense and nonsense and that's where he'd crossed it.
    Now it was pay back time.
    It wasn't the nausea or the flashbacks to dancing like he'd been electrocuted or the late row after he woke up the house or even the traffic cone in the hallway (although that hadn't been his finest moment).
    'You're thirty-f***king nine' she'd screamed at him. It was a simple statement of fact but given the circumstances, it had carried the weight of a brutally aimed insult.
    No, what really bothered him now as he shovelled handfuls of vitamins down his throat, was that he knew that next weekend would be the same. Maybe a different traffic cone but you know, basically the same.
    He didn't enjoy feeling like this. Then something came to him which cheered himself up immensely.
    What was it about the British he thought, absolving himself suddenly of any personal blame.
    What is it in our DNA that makes us want to do everything to excess?
    Oh well, nothing I can do about it. He shrugged, downed four cups of strong coffee and set off for his meeting.
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