Residue.

Unfortunate incidents of drunk e-mailing were reduced last year with the invention of a piece of software ("Mail Goggles") which is activated at the times when drinkers normally return from a night out.

Before it permits the sending of e-mail at those times, the user is presented with a series of mathematics questions which must be answered correctly. Incorrect answers are based on the assumption that the would-be e-mailer is drunk, and thus the message is not sent.

If the user is not drunk, though, or is drunk at the 'wrong' time of the day, then there is nothing at all to prevent disliked work colleagues and ex-partners receiving no end of abuse, or unwanted advances.

It seems, then - experience tells us so - that alcohol liberates the mind, and puts in place the inclination to express these freshly-emancipated ideas. Or perhaps the certainty that (some of) our ex-partners are bastards and bitches (whom we somehow desire), along with our managers (whom we do not) is not one which needs liberating, but only directing at the world. In vino veritas is the Latin declaration for this argument.

What about when no vino is needed to stimulate the veritas? When, even in the absence of no lips having been moistened with alcohol, let alone whole bodies having been flooded with the stuff, the urge is there to dig up the bones of the past and re-arrange them? This is the situation I found myself in last night when, for reasons which I shall explain, I almost caused myself to crash through the roof of my ex-partner's soul.

It only takes one mention of South Africa to do it, at least on the days I am particularly vulnerable, having allowed myself to get drunk on fresh air. Other times, the entire Gauteng provence might build itself from nothing in front of my eyes and I should register indifference.

On the days when I have sucked air like alcohol, I recall the 1990s comedy sketch from England where a bereaved woman constantly sees characteristics of her late husband in every mundane action:

"A cup of tea might make you feel better?"
(crying) "My husband used to drink tea!"
"I know it's hard. Just try to calm down."
(crying harder) "He always used the word 'down!'"

This is analogous to my own behaviour on such intoxicated days. The rush of loss rises to the top of the vessel thrown together from bone and memory, and blows the lid off the genie.

Some small stimulus, irrelevant and short-lived, served to remind me of the existence of South Africa. Before I knew what I was doing, my finger hovered over the South African woman's profile on Genericsocialnetworkingsite.com; and I wished I had some external authority to preclude me from sending several messages to her.

I don't even know what I wanted to say; I had nothing to say. All I wanted to express was duly done, some months ago, in polite words beyond the intersection where love turns into frustration and anger.

In the end, I withdrew from the nuclear button which would have sent a message, anticipated with the longing of a polar bear for a throat lozenge, and decided to sit quietly, away from the computer, and reflect upon how one moment of unwanted stimulus can lead a person to the very boundary of their reasoning.