I am not an alcoholic

At about 10:30 yesterday morning there was a knock on my front door. This was slightly weird, since the whole building has an intercom-buzzer system for the main entrance, so people can’t generally get to the front door without me knowing about it. Still, I answered, and straight away there was something about the guy that gave him away as a bailiff. I’d had a couple of called-while-you-were-out notes from the guy, and had previously phoned the council, whose debts he was chasing, to say that the man he was looking for moved out of the flat more than a year ago. They clearly hadn’t let bailiff-man know this.

Are you Mr McMillan?
No. I think he moved out early last year.

At this point his mobile phone rang, and he answered. I stood in the doorway for five seconds or so, feeling a little awkward. As something to do, I reached inside and grabbed my drink. The bailiff looked at me, looked at the drink, then at me again.

Sorry to have bothered you, bye.

As I walked back into the lounge I realised that I was holding a small glass tumbler, about 1/5th full of apple juice. I’m pretty sure he thought I was on the whisky at 1030 in the morning, and furthermore, that I couldn’t even go twenty seconds at the door without fetching it.

It was apple juice. Really.