Surprise view.

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows.

From the prelude, William Wordsworth.

Early evening, but it's dark already, a winter's night.

A wine bar in Soho and a man sits nursing a balloon glass of red wine

who was once an English teacher and is now a banker. A woman comes in, lots of men and women come in,

but he's waiting for this one. He stands and smiles, pulls out a chair for her. She gives him a light

kiss on both cheeks. He seems preoccupied,

sad even, but he puts on a brave face and greets her with affection. Sorry I'm late, she says,

hand on his shoulder. No problem, Helen. I had my friends to get me company. He nods at the wine

glass and Helen sees the bottle that stands beside it, two-thirds empty.

He sees her looking. I'll get another bottle, but she puts up a hand. No, I'm fine with that.

She points to the remains of the wine. She's probably thinking that her having some will stop

him drinking it all himself. They both sit. After a minute she says softly,

The wine. He sighs and shrugs.

I know. I know it's been hard. I don't mean to nag,

but alcohol is a medicine that turns into a poison.

She's a psychiatrist, works for the South London and Maudsley Hospital Trust,

working with patients to abuse alcohol and drugs.

He smiles,

You're my big sister, you're just looking out for me. He pours her a glass of wine and finishes the bottle himself, filling his glass with an apologetic but insincere smile. How have you been?

She asks kindly. So, so. She places her hand on top of his. I'm so sorry, I can't even

...