I stood under the coldest shower for ten minutes, and even then it took two coffees and a cigarette to get my brain into gear. There was a pervading stink of stale vomit in the bedroom, and it was only then that I remembered the sickness on my trousers. After consigning all of yesterday's clothes to the washing machine I went to search my admittedly sparse wardrobe. I had to settle for a very old pair of black jeans that were faded to a charcoal gray, and a white cotton shirt that had been pulled and twisted until it looked like I carried several bags of potatoes under it. I partially covered it with a black waistcoat, but I looked too much like an extra from The Godfather that it had to go. I found an old black cord jacket that looked slightly better. All I needed was Doug's spectacles and I'd look like a schoolteacher. And least I didn't look like I meant to kill anybody. I realized that I felt ready for work, raring to go. Sometime during the night, or maybe during my sleep, I'd finished mourning Wee Jimmy, and my maudlin period over Liz had passed for a couple more months.
