Finale

Those of us who are about to have a cocktail in the sun, we salute you!

I couldn't have liked it more

Six weeks just flew by. It's all over tomorrow, and you probably already know I've got plans to have a drink after work. I almost regret it's over, but I quickly recover from that.

A report? If I've lost any weight A) it's negligible and B) it's more likely because I've been going to the gym these past few weeks. But my skin looks healthy, and I feel relaxed; socially crutchless and fine for it. The husband says I'm "prettier, fitter, healthier". I've become a bit of a prig maybe. Perhaps I'll do it again next year.

As for this blog, well I can't see doing much more updating on it beyond the next few days - although perhaps I'll pop an update on it every now and then, if it's relevant. If I do Lent again, or go completely teetotal (I'd bet on the former rather than the latter) I'll revive it next time. I realise some (including my husband, and Peter) assumed that the '40 days' of the title referred to 40 daily entries, and were disappointed at my more lackadaisical approach. Maybe it's a guy thing! I was only making an allusion, biblical - natch, to the 40 days Jesus spent being tempted and the 40 days Moses spent on the mountain. It was not a particularly serious allusion, mind. Nor was it even 40 days! Never fear, I'm getting the hang of this blogging and if you're lucky/unlucky I'll let you know where my next one is.

On the penultimate day of my booze fast I'll leave you with these lyrics, some of the best I've ever seen on the joys and terrors of an awfully good party.

I love how it starts off with those bright young things - Nou Nou, Nada and Nell. But poor Millicent arrives with her sensationally decadent comb, then the comparison to the end of the Roman Empire adds to the sugestion there's something a bit more jaded going on. The suggestion they all might be at the same party one hundred years hence is both exhilarating and terrifying. Notice how slowly the revellers start to age and disintegrate? Why else would Freddy be wearing a truss and what did happen to Elise's bust?

Of course, I aspire to be Elsie - indeed, "if you're supple you've nothing to fear" -

Cheers

I went to a marvelous party, by Noel Coward

Verse 1
Quite for no reason
I'm here for the Season
And high as a kite,
Living in error
With Maud at Cap Ferrat
Which couldn't be right.
Everyone's here and frightfully gay,
Nobody cares what people say,
Though the Riviera
Seems really much queerer
Than Rome at it's height,
Yesterday night-

Refrain 1
I went to a marvelous party
With Nounou and Nada and Nell,
It was in the fresh air
And we went as we were
And we stayed as we were
Which was Hell.
Poor Grace started singing at midnight
And didn't stop singing till four;
We knew the excitement was bound to begin
When Laura got blind on Dubonnet and gin
And scratched her veneer with a Cartier pin,
I couldn't have liked it more.

Refrain 2
I went to a marvelous party,
I must say the fun was intense,
We all had to do
What the people we knew
Would be doing a hundred years hence.
Dear Cecil arrived wearing armour,
Some shells and a black feather boa,
Poor Millicent wore a surrealist comb
Made of bits of mosaic from St. Peter's in Rome,
But the weight was so great that she had to go home,
I couldn't have liked it more.

Verse 2
People's behaviour
Away from Belgravia
Would make you aghast,
So much variety
Watching society
Scampering past,
If you have any mind at all
Gibbon's divine Decline and Fall
Seems pretty flimsy,
No more than a whimsy,
By way of contrast
On Saturday last-

Refrain 3
I went to a marvelous party,
We didn't start dinner till ten
And young Bobbie Carr
Did a stunt at the bar
With a lot of extraordinary men;
Dear Baba arrived with a turtle
Which shattered us all to the core,
The Grand Duke was dancing a foxtrot with me
When suddenly Cyril screamed “Fiddledidee”
And ripped off his trousers and jumped in the sea,
I couldn't have liked it more.

Refrain 4
I went to a marvelous party,
Elise made an entrance with May
You'd never have guessed
From her fisherman's vest
That her bust had been whittled away.
Poor Lulu got fried on Chianti
And talked about esprit de corps.
Maurice made a couple of passes at Gus
And Freddie, who hates any kind of a fuss,
Did half the Big Apple and twisted his truss,
I couldn't have liked it more.

refrain 5
I went to a marvellous party.
We played the most wonderful game,
Maureen disappeared
And came back in a beard
And we all had to guess at her name!
We talked about growing old gracefully
And Elsie who's seventy-four
Said, “A, it's a question of being sincere,
And B, if you're supple you've nothing to fear.”
Then she swung upside down from a glass chandelier,
I couldn't have liked it more.

Looking forward

So I've quelled my doubts. I will be having a drink after work on Thursday. But now the serious question - cocktail or glass of red? That was the serious question put to me this afternoon by my colleague D. She will be joining me on Thursday. Shall I take a vote? Your answers on an email to 40daysinthewilderness@gmail.com

In fact I'm a bit worried. In addition to Thursday, I've got a 1994 St Emilion to crack with the husband (mmm... special occasion). Plus perhaps a nice Spanish red my boss, A, brought back last time he was there on a business trip (he interviewed the winery owner). Then my old mate M is coming up with his girlfriend on Sunday, and that might require a few pints...

All this and I'd more or less decided to, not remain teetotal, but certainly have a little more respect for the old liver in future. Will just have to start again. Afterthe weekend.

So close but so far

It's less than a week until the end of the fast. Hurrah. Readers will know that I've been looking foward to a slut cocktail (as opposed to a virgin cocktail?) next Thursday.

But I might be wrong. First it was my husband. I reminded him I'm likely out for some drinks on Thursday and he bristles a little. He thought it was Good Friday the fast ended - "Don't fall at the last hurdle," he said.

My turn to bristle. Fall at the last hurdle? I was already planning on relaxing the 'ends at dusk' rule, in order so that I can stroll from office to wine cellars and not have to wait like a numpty until the BBC's sun down report says so. I mean, this might be the one drawback to the long northerly summer nights we have started to enjoy since daylight savings time. Not only this but I've already let slip that I'll be in the wine bar after work to several folk!

So it's to t'internet to find The Answer. Of course, The Answer requires delving into the murkier aspects of Catholic dogma. Apparently, at the Council of Nicea, Lent fasting started on the first Lent Sunday and ended Holy Thursday. But that was, like, 325ad. Then because they aren't allowed to be penitent on Sundays, some bright spark decided it should extend back to Ash Wednesday and, what's getting my goat, Good Friday AND Saturday. Damn, waiting for Sunday to have a drink?

(If you want to see the full run down check out http://uscatholic.claretians.org/site/News2?abbr=usc_&page=NewsArticle&id=9619 )

I'm indignant. I highmindedly dismissed that 'get out of Sundays free' card and now it's threatening to bite me in the arse. Now I'm faced with the prospect of having to go even further to make up the 40 so called days I'll have already surpassed. Because although this Blog is called '40 days in the wilderness' perhaps my eagled eyed readers will have noticed I was in fact planning to abstain for 42. It just didn't have quite the same ring to it.

I'll have to think about this one more. Stay tuned for further reports...

Am I bored

So I should have written more by now, but I fear the subject matter might get boring. Am I boring, sans vin? The weekend was pleasant, but unremarkable. Gym on Saturday, fry-up and the papers on Sunday. Funnily enough I spent more time than I should have filling out a quiz, the prize of which was a year's worth of fine wine from Berry Bros & Rudd.

Not that I was bored. Nor do I usually spend so much time thinking about wine. But you never know when it might come in handy to know that Sancerre, which usually described a flinty, dry white, can also come in red and rose, due to the region's pinot noir vines. I'm not sad!

Virtuous

I am enjoying feeling virtuous. My mum rang today, and she had a hard time containing her delight - not smoking (quit Almost a year ago), not drinking (albeit temporarily) and when I spoke to her I was on my way to the gym. If I had a theme song right now it would be 'Goody Two Shoes'. Must get that for the iPod. Hi Mum!

And hello to N in Manchester, who's back from MIPIM, the MassIve PIss-up on the Med. Not a great acronym admittedly, but if the letters fit ... or not... N confesses he might not have taken full advantage of the potential for mayhem at the property industry party in Cannes. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me, N. Hope you got a tan. And say hi to Sir T for me.

Bring in the consultants!

Catching up on some reading this weekend, I happened upon some unusual advice to a boozy staff problem in Yorkshire Business Insider magazine. A questioner writes:

“Senior members of my staff often socialize with each other in the pub outside of office hours. While I think such interactions are good for office morale, I’m concerned at the level of alcohol being consumed and its effects on my company’s productivity. Is there anything I can do to tackle this?”

The situation described brings to mind a place I worked at a few years ago. The socialising was hysterical – almost literally. And regular. Sometimes it coulc be two, three days a weeks spent drinking seriously with work mates. We were a close knit group and in that crucible I forged some lasting friendships. But even the ones with whom you might not have seen eye to eye with in the office were good fun to have a drink with after. At the time I just cracked up the collective drunkeness to youthful exuberance and the 'pressures of media', but in retrospect it was rather intense, even for louche journalist types.

Interestingly, the answer to the questioner’s ‘problem’ is – and I’m serious – to work out a policy “in consultation with a specialist alcohol management consultancy”. I’ll be blowed. Who knew there were such things?

Running a marathon

It’s Sunday and I feel fine. The only reason why this might be worthy to report is I spent last night with C and S and their lovely friend B. Unusual for me, and perhaps C and S, with whom I’ve had a few rather more alcohol fuelled nights out, it was a nice sober night in. C had a few beers, and we all had virgin cocktails. I’d recommend her blend of cranberry, orange and pomegranate juiced with crushed ice. Mmm…

I’ve been doing the virgin cocktails quite spectacularly this week. The bartenders at the Lothian Ladies Spring Lunch on Friday were mixing up something fruity and frothy that went down a treat. Then later, I went out for a few with chaps from work. Feelings were running high – there was added excitement of dressing down at work for Red Nose Day, as well as plates of baked goods that my colleagues brought in to raise further funds (thus a sugar rush). The drink I ordered at the bar had crushed fresh raspberries, mint, lime juice, syrup, topped with ginger beer. The cute bartender made quite a show if it. When he handed it over (well worth the £3, I’d say) two people asked me what it was. Only one looked downcast when I said it was alcohol free but I assured her it would also be terrific with vodka.

I didn’t stay long – I wonder if going to the pub and not drinking is kind of like being the corpse at a wedding. This doesn’t at all reflect on my colleagues, with whom I had the same sort of fun and chat as I would when drinking – except perhaps marginally less candidly affectionate (I tend to get all sentimental and gooey when pissed). But like when I was a vegetarian – oh so long ago – mentioning meat often made people defensive. They’d quickly say, ‘oh, I eat meat rarely/only when I…/because it was for my health…’ any excuse, when I really wasn’t looking to shame anyone, not even by example.

Another S from Manchester, we’ll call her S2 for the sake of clarity, writes and suggests I must be a serious alcoholic. Steady on! I have to admit I thought the ease with which I’m being teetotal was rather a sign that I wasn’t. But then I know S2 doesn’t drink at all, for religious reasons. And for someone who doesn’t drink at all, perhaps drinking on the scale I’ve admitted to in this blog, or perhaps what is considered ‘normal’ for an average 25-45 year old British drinker, might appear to be a vast quantity compared to someone who doesn’t drink or drinks very little.

Of course, I’m watching the cricket world cup today, and Andrew Flintoff isn’t playing against Canada because he had a bit too much to drink after their last match on Friday and fell of a pedalo. Can’t wait to hear more about that story. I’m sure he had a stellar night, but not every one thinks so. Especially Vaughan the captain who pulled him off the team (husband argues it was likely to be coach Duncan Fletcher who banned him. Like it matters).

But maybe it is not other people at the pub who have ambivalent feelings, perhaps it is me. I have to admit to a feeling of smugness. It comes unbidden; it expects somehow, for some reason, apologetic explanations why someone else is having a third pint on a Friday or a champagne cocktail at lunch.

I disapprove of this disapproval. For one I’m so not a reformed character, just trying out something different for a while, meeting a personal challenge. I mean if I was training for a marathon, I wouldn’t look down my nose at people that weren’t. Or perhaps you do, when training for the marathon, relish a certain feeling of superiority to people who don’t. I wouldn’t know. And no I’m not planning on running a marathon.

Not pregnant

I like to celebrate Chinese New Year with a group from Hong Kong I met a few years ago - Kung Hei Fat Choi, Year of the Golden Pig! This was my third year. It's nothing major, no dragon parades or anything - just a reception, wine and canapés, a speech by an envoy from HK, plus you receive some sort of Chinese knick knacks (or tat, as my husband would call them). But I'm fond of them, for some reason - I've had a little stone carving of the year's animal suspended on a red beaded string on my monitor at work now for ages.

The trio of chaps who run the event come up from London each year and each year I end up talking rot over drinks with them. We were in the Corinthian, a Glasgow bar and restaurant in a magnificently florid Victorian bank building. This time of course, I stuck with the ginger ale. I chatted to a few new faces and when it came to saying hello to the organisers, the difference between my sobriety and their lack of it was charming. Explaining why I wasn't having a glass of red brought up an interesting insight into the family life of one of my hosts - long story, won't relate it here. Suffice to say he was preparing to go back to HK and probably won't be seeing his 13-year-old son for a wee while. Drinking does encourage people to speak more intimately with others they may only socialise briefly with once a year. More than if they weren't. And that can be a good thing, unless of course you tell too much…

I didn't however get any work done on the train back. Rather than being tipsy I just felt lazy and tired. Think I was in bed by 10.30pm.

It was the Rugby match on Saturday where it would have been nice to have a drink. It wasn't just that my father-in-law, who came up for the weekend, was so gobsmacked I wasn't having a pint, or a whisky or a glass of wine. In fact he kept 'forgetting' and asking me why I wasn't. Lunch, too, in the Scotch Malt Whisky Society on the Friday was amusing, if only for the compassionate way which the nice young waiter took my order for fizzy water, while my husband and his dad had a dram or two. Either he thought I was pregnant or a recovering dipsomaniac.

It would have been nice to have a pint at the pub before we went to Murrayfield Stadium for Ireland vs Scotland (Scotland lost 19-18. It was a cliffhanger all the way through). And it would have been nice to have a glass of Chianti at that great little Italian we had dinner at later. But nevermind.

A press release came through today: A dark little local wine bar, in launching a new cocktail list, is giving away bottles of champagne on the hour every Thursday night through April. They do good seafood too. I think I've decided where I'll go to break my fast!

Working for the weekend?

Four weeks to go. Had lunch with a friend, C, who asked how I was getting on as I sniffed her chardonnay. She marvelled at how long Lent is. Me too, sweetie, me too.

The Sunday papers were quite instructive about abstinence and Lent. I only personally know of one person, P in Nottingham, who is doing it too. But Observer writer Alex Clark, who writes a likeable and funny column My So-Called Week, bemoans her abstinent-for-Lent friends who cause mayhem by ordering mad, non-alcoholic concoctions. http://observer.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,2025883,00.html.
And she also reports that some apparently don't do their fast on Sundays, in some sort of dogmatic get-out-of-jail free card, or something. I'll have to check this out although I disdain it - it's not 'giving up' if it's 'once a week'. Durr. I could do that anytime...

On Saturdays, the Guardian's Dr Tom Smith has been taking a stiff attitude to drinking. I notice he's been getting a few variations on the 'are you serious one large glass of wine is the daily limit?' type of letters. Gladly there's light at the end of the tunnel - Dr Tim reports that the liver has "greaat powers of recovery".
http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,,2024073,00.html
Hurrah for that then!

Champagne receptions

The invitation was 7pm at Harvey Nichols for champagne and canapes. 8pm three course dinner with fine wines, followed by a 'Splash of Fashion models showcase', then speaker, then fundraising auction and carriages. Pretty full-on for a Monday night, although it was for charity - the Princess Royal Trust for Carers, if you ask.

But we were meeting at 6.30 at one of those new bar/restaurant/club/boutique hotels that have flourished like mushrooms in the dew on George Street. Where once there were Assurance companies, now there are hotel bars. Interestingly I was guest of an assurance company, in a bar that might once have been its offices.

Dressed to the nines (well, in my favourite black silk wrap dress) and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot chilling on the table, I get the barman to mix me a virgin raspberry mojito. It was lovely. Would be excellent with vodka, or indeed some of the Veuve. Again I explain to my hosts I'd usually be delighted to join in but am on the Lent wagon, and many - for we are eight women in the communications business - have given up something for Lent at some point. One woman there who worked for a law firm said she'd once given up shopping for all but necessities and came out with a tidy sum for her holidays. But that she hasn't done it since.

Now seriously, although I have a pictire of Edina and Patsy on my site and this is the second time in less than 2 weeks I've been to Harvey Nicks this is extraordinary, even for me who in the course of my job has recently been to Gothenburg, Atlanta and once got flown out to Prague for lunch. I do not spend much time at all in Harvey Nichols. But it was a fun night. Although all this fruit-based drink and water - what do teetotallers usually have to go with nice food? And please don't say diet Coke because if you suggest that you don't know what I mean.

Now I've long given up the idea that it's a terrible waste to leave a half a pint of beer if you don't fancy it, or have to leave. When I was young and broke of course it was a travesty. But say what you like about HN, the wine on the tables was impressive - the red was in fact a Crozes Hermitage (which if you refer back to my first post..) albeit a 2004. I felt a bit mixed about leaving a full uncorked bottle untouched. Nevermind. Of the 90 or so guests I counted at least 5 or 6 multi-millionaires of my acquaintance. Perhaps that is what multi-millionaires do.

After, I did go back with my hosts to the bar we started in. They ordered another bottle of Veuve and me another fruit-based drink (for the lady, thanks Al Murray). Clicquot surely knew it was worth it to sponsor those awards for women in business. It really is the bottle to buy women at about the £25/£30 mark (or if you're drinking on George Street in Edinburgh, £40).

My host had enjoyed the evening's libations - she had more than 2 to 3 units, to say the least. I looked her in her bleary blue eye. She got a bit emotional about a mutual friend whose wife had died, spilled a bit of champagne on her front, joked loudly about how she should go back up to a schoolmate at the bar who had been rude to her and give him what for. Then we both left in a taxi at about 11.45. I was her, not too long ago.

The bitter end

Thanks Peter for the nagging. I probably should be blogging everyday! Less copy more often, better.

Thursday was a watershed. Out for dinner with friends at a nice restaurant in Bruntsfield. Luckily they are an entertaining, easy-going, social bunch, and M wasn’t feeling that well so she too stayed on the Appletiser and fizzy water. I was surprised at the lack of difference in the evening than if I’d been drinking. Although the lamb shank would have been brilliant with a glass of red. Yet after dinner, pudding and an espresso, I started to feel a bit jaded, as if the evening would be better drawn to a close. But as it was after 11pm on a school night, that was probably because it was better drawn to a close.

Otherwise, the husband usually has to coax me away. Or, if I’m out without him, I stay out too late. I didn’t once have the nick-name ‘bitter end’ for nothing.

...

Yet I have to make sure I don't forget about this booze fast. When I became a vegetarian in my teens (I am no longer veggie, clearly), I used to have dreams where someone had slipped meat into my food. I'd be eating, in my dream, and realise what I was eating was meat and feel terribly, terribly guilty.
This didn't happen on Saturday, but my husband and I went out for a walk. A clear, chill day at the start of March in Ediburgh is a good time to go up on Blackford and the Braid hills - some rather good views up there. Part of our route included a smashing pub - a former stables next to the Morton Hall. It's in a lovely cobbled courtyard that catches the afternoon sun. On the way there, I had the thought 'I'll have a pint'. It took me a good ten minutes before I realised 'wait a second, no I won't'. So with any luck, I'll be able to remember that I'm not drinking for the next five weeks before I put a glass to my lips out of sheer habit.

And thanks to the lovely R, from Devon, who suggests that people should more often suggest going out not drinking. Good idea. A cup of tea, R? And H, a solictor in Manchester who warns that she found after a period of absintence the much looked-forward to drink is a bittersweet event, as you know it's bad for you. If so, her estimate that a glass of red solves this problem sounds about right to me!

Slainte!

Is teetotal tedium?

It’s the eve of my first week of the booze fast. I can’t say I’ve noticed much of a change. I thought it might be a good way to lose weight but nary a kilo has gone.

I’ll not be reporting here my before and after weight – this is not a Bridget Jones-style diary. Suffice it to say my sylph-like days are behind me. Nor am I likely to trouble anyone concerned by 'size zero'. But still, somewhat of a disappointment at the scales this morning. It could be that I’m eating faster – no wine with dinner gives me less reason for pause? I’ve also noticed the emergence of a latent sweet tooth (savoury is usually my downfall). But I’ve joined a gym, watch this space.

Another letter from another S, who also says she enjoys red wine. There are lots of us!
She too gave up drink, for the month of January, where she reports discovering quite how long the weekends can be. That’s two now who suggest that teetotal is tedium.

But like me there are clearly are women out there thinking about the amount they drink. And no wonder. The headlines have been screaming. “Twice as many Scots die from drink than in the rest of the UK” shouts a recent headline from the Scotsman.

And that Official Government advice says 2 to 3 units a day for women and no more than 14 units a week. More, and your Health is at Risk.

To me this seems stringent, but then I would say that - I couldn’t count the weeks I drank over 14 units. Let alone the days over 2 or 3! And days over 14? Wouldn’t doubt it. Bet I felt rough the next day, though.

But aside from the risks to health generally associated with heavy drinking – driving under the influence, falling over, having unprotected sex with someone one might not otherwise, or rape or violence – direct health risks are those more associated with long time chronic alcohol dependency, including hepatitis, cirrhosis of the liver, gastritis or pancreatitis as well as brain damage and vitamin deficiency.

So what’s an alcoholic? According to the Institute of Alcohol Studies, a person is considered to be dependent on alcohol when they have three or more of the following symptoms during a year.
· A strong urge to drink, difficulty controlling how much they drink, or difficulty stopping.
· Physical withdrawal symptoms, such as sweating, shaking, agitation and nausea when they try to reduce drinking.
· A growing tolerance to alcohol - needing larger quantities to get the same effect.
· Gradual neglect of other activities.
· Persistent drinking even though it is obviously causing harm.

I’d check one – “difficulty controlling how much”. But then it’s often a running joke when, after work, someone suggests going out for ‘just one’, and then everyone ends up going home steaming…

The good thing is I was wrong in my first blog entry – 5 units, which I drank on my last night, wasn’t actually a proper binge. In fact, as the British Medical Association points out, www.bma.org.uk/ap.nsf/Content/Hubhotpbingedrinking, outside of the fevered brains of some headline writers, there is little consensus of how much constitutes a binge. For the sake of simplicity, they suggest a binge as being 7 units (half of the weekly limit).

Luckily I’m not yet that bored without booze. Although I looked at the calendar today and five weeks stetches out ahead of me a distant desert horizon.

Made it to the weekend

I'm exhausted, as if I've been wrung out. Yesterday (Friday) I felt distracted, a bit fuzzy, not unlike the feeling you get when withdrawing from caffeine. I also had a few bitches at colleagues (sorry, guys). I've also got some spectacular spots. Is it the (lack of) drink?

I wonder. Mitigating a direct correlation between these symptoms and my booze fast, I'm also premenstrual (sorry squeamish chaps) and it was likely to be a stressful week in the office, which panned out as I'd expected - it was stressful! One of those weeks where, short of staff, you have to fill in, which gets you even more behind schedule. You can't blame anyone except perhaps your bosses at head office, but that is another blog. My husband told me I've been grumpy, but then he often does.

Thursday I also went to my first dinner event sans vin. It was ok, pleasant event and I walked confidently home. It was a relatively sober event at any rate - lots of discussion about an upcoming charitable event to raise money for breast cancer. Mainly posh and/or well to do women there, which is inevitably a type which doesn't, in my experience, drink alcohol in vast quantities - at least not in public.

As my job often calls upon me to 'work the room', I find I use alcohol as method of lubricating my way from social interaction to interaction. One of my husband's favourite jokes about the difference between us - I'm North American and he's British - is that to him a room full of strangers is something to be avoided at all costs, while for me a room full of strangers is a room full of potential friends.

But I do fear sometimes that I might find the chatter dull, vacuous, pointless unless I've got a glass of something in my hand and a good idea how to fill it when it is empty. There is something about it to my mind like a nervous reflex - empty glass bad. My first email about this blog (sent to its dedicated email address 40daysinthewilderness@gmail.com) was from S, a fellow connoisseur of a nice bottle of red, who said she gave up drinking for a time and found herself bored. Thanks for the suggestion, S, I probably will need a hobby. For now, it's this blog! I won't be out all hours drinking - I was home by 10pm on Thursday for example.

Out to meet a girlfriend for lunch, and rather than stay at the pub (it's happened to us a few times) we might even hit a gallery or museum. One point for culture.

Ash Wednesday

So far so good. Lunch at Harvey Nick's Forth Floor Restaurant has the sort of view that almost requires champagne to celebrate, but a gesture towards the wine list by the host was easily dismissed. Interestingly both my dining companions seemed relieved to opt for a bottle of water. And the announcment of my Lenten fast was recieved with a 'good show' sort of
reaction.

In this day and age, the decision to have a drink or not at lunch seems to me to be fraught - for some a glass of wine civilises a nice meal but for others it's a sign of frowned upon indulgence (guess which statementI might agree with). But if one has a drink there's a sense that it's politic all should - or if you opt out you make it clear that others are welcome. There's always hesitation. I've seen it happen loads of times.

After lunch a quick tour around the food floor to buy something to go along with pasta for dinner tonight. They have a terrific wine selection there and am caught up short when I look at the price tag for one bottle - £140! Must be amazing for that price. Then catch myself looking at wines - why should I bother! I buy a stupidly expensive quarter loaf of Poilane instead and some Jerusalem artichokes.

It feels a bit strange writing about drink in this manner, making it seem as if drinking occupies my thoughts often. They don't really, it's just what the blog's about. In fact, I would put it out that quite a lot of drinking alcohol is unthinking - automatic rather than an active choice. I suppose this is what makes it somehow ubiquitous in the UK as a past time -

The Night Before

Fat Tuesday. Mardis gras. Pancake day. I make pancakes for dinner and open a nice bottle of Crozes Hermitage to breathe. It's terrific - a 2002. Then a brandy for a nightcap. Drink down my last swallow before midnight. It's the last drop I'll have until sundown on the 5th of April.

Why am I doing it? I don’t consider myself an alcoholic. I don’t think I need it. But it is a big part of my culture. If drinking half a bottle of Bordeaux of an evening with my husband is binge drinking (which for women is, apparently), then I binge drink at least a few times a week. Then if drinking wine Saturday lunch with the girls at a downtown restaurant, then having a vodka alco-pop at the Rugby match, then three glasses of wine and two shots of sambucca in the bar after is even worse, then that was me just a few weeks ago.

Having completed a few questionnaires on drinking behaviour, I’ve been advised I’m putting my health at risk with the amount I regularly drink. And I’ve been imbibing alcohol like this for years. Many years. If the amount I drink now shocks you, I’ve even reduced the amount I drink over the past few years.