The Infusionist

I’m drinking ‘The Infusionist’, which I initially dismissed as ‘exactly the same as very strong squash.’ Of course it isn’t, as it is 20% ABV and, after several uneven gulps, has made me sufficiently incoherent to want to write a mostly coherent blog about…depression!

I only have to have a sniff of Archers and I’m instantly transported to the lake at the back of the University of East Anglia. When I was 17, I walked around that lake and tried to out-stare the water: “I *will* jump into you and drown! And no one will care!” Such is the effect of peach schnapps in addition to an already toxic combination of hormones and an inability to adequately process a family break-up. Reading ‘Prozac Nation’ at the time probably didn’t help either.

So, peach schnapps is my ‘madeleine moment’, except that I won’t try to compete with ‘À la recherche du temps perdu’ by writing 3,200 pages about it. This blog will do.  

Interestingly, I found this:

‘To ensure (Proust) did not catch cold, he had his tailor make him several overcoats, which he wore one on top of the other, like a Russian doll, leaving him so large that he could not fit down the side-aisle in the church.’

When I was 17, I used to wear several jumpers. I wasn’t a hypochondriac. I wasn’t even trying to gain attention (far from it – I was well aware what a pathetic waste of bones I was.)

And I found this too:

‘He (Proust’s father) invented the cordon sanitaire – the quarantined ring around an infected area…’

Which reminds me again of when I was 17 and played guitar in the main corridor at my sixth form college. People didn’t just side-step me: they took a run-up before leaping over my horrible emaciated sweaty head. I had been led to believe that lecturers would be more supportive. 

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