55. William Hogarth's Gin Lane.

Someone used to keep bottles of gin under the white bed sheets soaking in the cement trough in my Nana's laundry. I knew they were there, and given the aroma the uncapped bottles gave off, always imagined that drinking gin would be like drinking flowers.

The existence of the bottles was always later denied by my parents and siblings. The very existence of whoever kept them there was denied as well. Every time I retell this story of how some alcoholic relative of mine was willed into nonexistence I get the urge to walk to my nearest liquor store for a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.