was born with a few drops of euphoria, not the whole bucket. That makes me lucky, although not lucky enough to escape loving drunk when younger. Drunk both amped up the euphoria and solved (temporarily) some of the problems of living. I remember sitting on the floor in a schoolfriend’s ‘rumpus room’—the holding pen where some middle-class parents parked their kids’ excess energy, so they weren’t always dealing with it firsthand—while the ritual of a 21st birthday played out before the assembled youth, crosslegged on the carpet as if transported back to primary school. A cartoon graduation ceremony. Was there a key? A key on a card? There was definitely a yard glass. I recall a conscious and
