When life is a bit of a gamble

Gambling is not my thing.

I remember decrepit Hubby sitting spinning an online button three days before he died. I remember three days later seeing R3 000 every one of those three nights being swallowed – R9 000 could’ve buried him, nearly, just over a decade ago (it was a cheap funeral).

I remember when we “looked at his estate” his gambling debts were over a million rands – in fact, closer to two.

I loved him, deeply, but for years afterwards – what a word for death – I blamed him for selling his family short.

That could’ve paid off our Observatory mansion overlooking the ninth green.

That could’ve stopped me “scaling down” from 3 000 square metres to a hardly 500 square metre property where I hear every word my neighbours whisper.

But I somehow forgive him. Like me, he had “the addictive personality”. No doubt you’ll read mine as a glass or six of red, but I know better.

Touch my soul and I’m addicted. Wine just helps me to pour cement on your clay feet. Like his.

He was an alcoholic, clean for the last 10 years of our 32-year marriage.

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Well, if you forgive the three-day slip in Zimbabwe during the 2010 Cricket World Cup, or the one night he chose not to disappear for a week like he used to.

For me? He was clean. Been there, done it.

The man tried and was and still is The Man. Deeply loved. But he made it so much easier for me now, without my gatekeeper, to act on my addictive personality. And I’m not talking reds. My escapism is the odd online game.

Intense and eyes crossedover I spend the odd R33 online. Okay, I admitted to the family, close to R200 every month.

I lied. It is closer to R300… “You work for your money. Enjoy,” I hear.

But remember the little serviettes we have to count as toilet paper halfway through the month?

What bread I could’ve put in the aluminium bin if I chose to?

I hate gambling. And that’s what I’m doing. What a waste.