The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle. He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life， his death， and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him into stupor every night， and gin that revived him every morning. When he woke， seldom before eleven hundred， with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken， it would have been impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours he sat with glazed face， the bottle handy， listening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he did any longer， no whistle woke him， no telescreen admonished him. Occasionally， perhaps twice a week， he went to a dusty， forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and did a little work， or what was called work. He had been appointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee which had sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were engaged in producing something called an Interim Report， but what it was that they were reporting on he had never definitely found out. It was something to do with the question of whether commas should be placed inside brackets， or outside. There were four others on the committee， all of them persons similar to himself. There were days when they assembled and then promptly dispersed again， frankly admitting to one another that there was not really anything to be done. But there were other days when they settled down to their work almost eagerly， making a tremendous show of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda which were never finished — when the argument as to what they were supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse， with subtle haggling over definitions， enormous digressions， quarrels threats， even， to appeal to higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out of them and they would sit round the table looking at one another with extinct eyes， like ghosts fading at cock-crow.
The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised his head again. The bulletin！ But no， they were merely changing the music. He had the map of Africa behind his eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram： a black arrow tearing vertically southward， and a white arrow horizontally eastward， across the tail of the first. As though for reassurance he looked up at the imperturbable face in the portrait. Was it conceivable that the second arrow did not even exist？ His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of gin， picked up the white knight and made a tentative move. Check. But it was evidently not the right move， because uncalled， a memory floated into his mind. He saw a candle-lit room with a vast white-counterpaned bed， and himself， a boy of nine or ten， sitting on the floor， shaking a dice-box， and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting opposite him and also laughing.
It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment of reconciliation， when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well， a pelting， drenching day when the water streamed down the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read by. The boredom of the two children in the dark， cramped bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and grizzled， made futile demands for food， fretted about the room pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbours banged on the wall， while the younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother said， “Now be good， and I’Il buy you a toy. A lovely toy — you’ll love it”； and then she had gone out in the rain， to a little general shop which was still sporadically open nearby， and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and Ladders. He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came slithering down the snakes again， almost to the starting- point. They played eight games， winning four each. His tiny sister， too young to understand what the game was about， had sat propped up against a bolster， laughing because the others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all been happy together， as in his earlier childhood.
He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was troubled by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as one knew them for what they were. Some things had happened， others had not happened. He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a clatter. He had started as though a pin had run into him.
A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin！ Victory！ It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the café. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their ears.
