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.