Actually the thought of smoking was repugnant, as it always was the day after drinking because the smoke, not so much the taste or smell as what it stood for, created a connection between the present day and the previous one, a kind of sensory bridge across which all kinds of things streamed so that everything around me, the greyish-black tarmac, the light grey kerbstones, the grey sky, the birds flying beneath it, the black windows in the rows of houses, the red car we were standing beside, Yngve’s distracted figure, were permeated by terrifying internal images; at the same time there was
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