For the third time this week, Tom is at the pub twenty miles away.

He left home just before 5pm. He planned on coming back sometime after midnight. Usually, he’ll come home on the last train, stumble through the door, pour himself a glass of wine, maybe a second, before staggering up to bed and snoring next to me. He’ll wake the next morning, still exhaling the fumes of the night before, still not quite sober. Tonight, he’s gone out because he said that I ordered him to stay home.