�Jesus Christ, he should be dead with a count that high.�
�I know. They told him if he doesn�t stop drinking, he�ll die.�
The two men fell silent and, after a suitable period of time had elapsed (around 10 or 15 seconds), they both took another good hit of their drinks.
Bill was on double vodka and soda, Jake was sticking to lager. He had been ill himself lately and had lost a lot of weight. After several weeks in bed, he had eventually managed to build his weight up again and get out of the house. He had grown tired of lying around staring at the walls of his flat.
Talk of doctors, hospitals, blood tests and alcohol counts was rife in the pub that day. The subject always came up eventually, if you sat around in the place long enough. Which mostly everyone did.
I was at the table with Bill and Jake, although I didn�t know who they were talking about (the guy with the blood alcohol level of over 2000). I mostly kept silent and drank my pint of lager.
The conversation had started when I mentioned my doctor�s appointment of the previous day. I had registered with a new practice and had my blood pressure taken by a very nice nurse called Ruby. She said it was a little high and wanted me to go back for monthly checks. I didn�t have any problem with that. It would get me out of work.
�The last time I had a blood test, they said my alcohol reading was about 65,� Bill said. �That�s meant to be really high, but 2000 is just crazy. His liver must have stopped working properly to give a reading that high.�
The standard rule was never to tell doctors how much you actually drank. You always downplayed it, but there was no arguing with blood tests. I was due to have a medical the following week and wasn�t looking forward to it one bit. I didn�t want to know if I had terminal cancer or liver damage or if I was a chronic alcoholic. I was happier living in ignorant bliss. I had never understood people who ran to their doctor every time they had an ache or pain. I was of the opinion that such things were to be suffered, especially if they were self-inflicted. I wasn�t looking for sympathy. Company, perhaps, or some sort of empathy, a common bond. But certainly not sympathy.
It was a slow day at Captain Jack�s. I had been skiving off work again. I�d already used up all of my ten days paid sick leave, but there were other ways of getting a few hours off. Because my contract was ending anyway, the boss let me off to go to job interviews. Most of these �interviews� consisted of sitting in Captain Jack�s drinking and talking. I liked to think of it as networking!