Ray

Ray (friend and ex-hospital radio station manager) has just left rehab and has moved into shared supported housing. After a somewhat taxing day at work I popped over to see him. He greeted me at the door with a steaming mug of fennel tea and a beaming smile. It's a marked improvement since I last saw him, swinging between bouts of premium strength wrath and melodramatic weeping. He looks good too, he's shed a few pounds and though the smell of incense hung about his room I could quite easily say he smells a lot less ripe than before. In fact I could go as far to say he's changing his socks on a daily basis. He apologised profusely for the destruction he left in his wake at my flat and the station, promising to repay me any money for damages caused as soon as he has work. And spoke at length about his disease. I really wanted to confide in him, to tell him about Simone Loving but it wasn't the place, he needed to talk. And talk. And talk. I was there for two hours, he only came up for air once and that was to relight another josstick. Finally he excused himself to check in with his sponser, a chap he phones regularly for encouragement. Fearing another sixty minute lowdown on his daily routine I said my good-bye and left. Exhausted.