Say cheese and wine - Alcohol Awareness Week, Day II

Alcohol Awareness Week comes but once a year, a bit like Christmas or a fun trip to church, and so I am continuing the festivities here.  In a second fit of self-realisation that I need to come to terms with my drinking habits before I end up one liver down, I earlier took a set of photos, chronicling the various bottles and cans concealed about my room.

Now, to look at these photos, it may not appear that there is a great deal to worry about.  The amounts of alcohol are not gargantuan, and the items have been acquired over a certain amount of time, not all in one night.  The problem is, however, that they have been hidden.  I live alone.  I have hidden them, from myself.  In desperate shame, I have actually concealed the evidence of what has previously occurred as though I can somehow blot it from my psyche.

As though I wouldn't find them in my sock drawer.  Christ on a bike, Cecil.  

Apologies for the poor quality pictures.  At the moment the only camera I own appears to be on a Nintendo.

Here is an empty bottle of red wine nestled snugly in my sock drawer.  And I have noticed the Hunter label at the back, but this was neither some poor attempt at product placement nor a boast that I own Hunter welly socks.
If you hadn't noticed, however, I own Hunter welly socks.

This bottle of whiskey was attempting to hide behind a copy of Graham Greene's 'Travels with my Aunt.'  But just because you hide behind a giant of twentieth century literature does not mean you are any less disreputable.

Innocent can of Pringles?  Look again.

Convenient hiding spot for various mixers!  1 tonic = 1 G&T.  1 dry ginger = 1 whiskey.

In this photo I tripped and accidentally hit the button.  Why I decided to leave it, I don't know, but here we are.
This is a passing shot of my floor.  You might notice it is laminated.  On the other hand, you might not.

Top drawer.  I also found about eighty paracetamol packs, a statue of Jesus, and a very small lady.

This is a glass of whiskey with a mat on top.  In case the alcohol tries to escape,  I suppose.   My reasoning was sound at the time.
And look, below.  Another one of my lady's razors makes an appearance.

And last but not least.  These were wrapped in various flamboyant scarves that I am quite pleased to have use of once again.

There we have it.  The hidden contents of the boudoir.  I do wish it could be something a little bit more glamorous than old cans of lager.

(In case you were wondering, I did throw all this away after I uncovered it.)

I suppose the pallid attempts at humour are some pitiable defence mechanism that makes it all seem a little less serious.  Isn't it fucking tragic?