The Angel’s Share
I have woken up with a stinking hangover. I call over to my friend, Muriel, who is sitting on the floor but clinging to a chair.
“Why do we keep doing it?” I ask.
“It always seems like a good idea at the time, it’s a privilege to be here. They expect us to drink it, Gabriel.”
I knew she was right, being asked to go to the whisky distillery was a privilege and the ‘angel’s share’ had to be consumed, it was a tradition.
But these mornings never got any easier and somehow we never learn our lesson.