I’m off work lying on the couch spaced out on codeine because that is literally the only thing that controls the pain of my bursitis (in the hip, so when it flares I can’t sit/lie/stand/walk/drive without being on the verge of screaming and I've had needle-nosed pliers jammed under my thumb nail without blinking) and my dad calls from the basement suite.

“Would you like some wine?”

No, thanks, I'd rather not go into coma/vomit/die in the living room. It would distress the dogs.