This story has two morals. One of them is: don’t make life-changing decisions when you’re shitfaced. But that’s kind of obvious so let’s dispense with that one here. Don’t. Just don’t.
The second is more subtle.
So it starts about six months ago and twenty yards from posh Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, on the front deck of a houseboat. It’s six thirty on a chilly autumn morning. A low sun glints off the gold pagoda in the park, the tide is low and the boats are beached, sprawled on the mud like fag butts beneath a teenager’s bedroom window. It smells like seaweed and sewage.
