He never drank whisky before his third beer and then it was always the beer first, with the whiskey as a chaser. That was a rule and he never deviated – a man had to be in control of himself.
He was always one of the first in the bar for the evening session – every weekday the same, 4.45 on the dot. After twelve years he could get through the workday in his sleep; finish the cleaning at 4.20, pack away the gear and clock off at the hospital at 4.30.
The walk from the hospital to Darling Street took five minutes, seven at the most, depending how he caught the lights. Every day he stopped off at the deli at the top of the hill for a cabbage roll and a sandwich of black bread and strong cheese, and ate them on the downhill stretch to the pub. It was discipline – a man can’t drink on an empty stomach. He never ate after drinking, so it served as dinner.
Today he turned the corner into Ironcove Parade and strode up the front steps of the pub at 4.43 – two minutes early.
