I’m working long, physical days at the moment, juggling a million things and ending the day exhausted. These are the times when I’d usually drink well; that is, normally. One or two glasses of wine at the end of a hard tiring day, the sort of drinking that alcoholics aspire to, where it is so clearly deserved that there is no chink into which the usual guilty awareness can slink. Few and far between, those times, but aspired to constantly.
And the old owners of the new house, who are friends of friends which is the only reason we got it, came over to clear out the last of their stuff and very sweetly brought with them two bottles of nice wine, two of my favourite varietals, as a housewarming gift. I took them home, chilled them, and poured a large glass. For LH.
Oh, I know, there’s always a reason to drink, this one isn’t compelling or anything. I’m just getting flashes of – seriously? I’m seriously doing this sober thing? It was a whim! I just wanted to see if I could! I didn’t think it through! I didn’t mean it!
But of course I did. I’ve known for years that one day I’d have to give up forever. And I knew it wouldn’t be easy; in fact that’s good, that’s great, because it proves that I’m doing the right thing, and it gives me the best reason in the world to not start all over again, and I know perfectly well that I’d have to – start again, I mean. I can never drink normally.
So it’s all fine. Not going to drink. Just having a – if you’ll forgive the pun – little whine.