Wednesday, 27 January 2016


It's nearly the end of January.  Nearly the end of a dry January. Enough with January already.

What is the point of me putting myself through this? It's not like I'm a massive drinker. Anymore.

Thanks to all the hosting over the holiday season I could be found leaving half drunk glasses of tipples all over the house as I ran to put something in the oven and take something else out.

And I was already feeling pious having dried myself through November too. So why, when everyone had gone home and busy times ended, did I feel it was necessary to stop drinking all over again?


My relationship with alcohol changed with motherhood. Out went the boozy nights and bleary mornings after a crammed week at work.  In came sleepless nights with three babies in six years punctuated by the odd glass of vino or bubbles on happy or holy days.

And that's pretty much how it's been apart from my 40th birthday party (a term of stress + freebie jaegarbombs = one forgotten night) and the very very sad last night of my teaching leaving do.

Unlike my attitude to smoking I haven't become all Puritan about drinking; you won't find seasons of Prohibition at TwickersTowers. But I guess having to deal with three kids the next day stops the grogfest nights of yesteryear. For me anyway. *coughs pointedly*.

I never saw my parents drink to extreme but there was the occasional Blue Nun that appeared on a Friday Night. And I have vague memories of my Dad's 40th birthday awash with tipsy customs officers demanding that I replay Should I stay or should I go now by The Clash over and over again. I was 17 and the only one sober enough to work the cassette player.

I seem to have this ick factor thing that goes on with people I see who are proper off their face, talking nonsense, glassy eye zombied in my house.  That's the thing with me. If someone is out in a pub, club or bar and they get a bit squiffy, all power to them, off you go.  But get all messed-up drunk up in my house around my kids then you know the earrings and rings are coming off. There is a fine line for me because if someone crosses it under my roof I just lose all respect. It has happened and irreparable damage has been done between me and those people.

And then there's the whole girly thing. I've seen barely functioning fellas stagger home on the Tube scraping house keys all over their front door until they navigate the keyhole; the opening door spewing them onto the doormat until morning.  When I partook of the London student scene (pre-mobile phones I hasten to add) us girlies never allowed another female to walk home alone if they were non compos menti; there was just an unwritten rule of safety between us.  Now with lower heels, longer skirts and bairns to wake up to rather than a lie and glorious hangover fry up, I honestly favour an alcohol free night if it means I get to drive home.

There will always be a tipple on the table when I get  home. In my special wine glass!

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt45:Alcohol