or notes following a month of sobriety
So I spent February voluntarily on the wagon, so had better get these notes down before I lose all memory of the experience in a boozy fug. First item is that the entire endeavour was an awful lot easier than I had imagined it would be. There were only a few occasions where I really fancied alcohol, but never to the extent that I was even close to buckling and downing shorts. This pleased me and served to convince me that I’m actually not an alcoholic. Which is nice.
Item two would be the question of what benefits I received. I did feel physically healthier after the first week, but did end up smoking more heavily towards the end of February, so the two probably cancelled each other out. In terms of mental health, I think I found myself being more introspective than I’ve been for a while, which is seldom a good thing. Though the implication there seems to be that I’m only socially comfortable when attempting to get off my tits, which is probably less good. Needs work. Or counselling. Financially I thought I’d reaped a massive dividend, until realising I’d completely misremembered my bank balance from the start of January and was actually significantly down on the month. But it had been a bill heavy four weeks and I’d had two London trips and spaffed my wad all over the local comic shop’s closing down sale, so I probably did save a bit. Thing was, I still spent a fair few nights in pubs and what with the obscene prices being charged for soft drinks these days, I didn’t spend much less than I would have ordinarily. Except on those occasions when I left early because I could tell I was going to become annoyed by my chums getting wasted while I sat about with my bttle of Fentimans, nicking out for fags every fifteen minutes. So in conclusion, the benefits of the exercise appear to be a brief peak of healthiness before another vice took over and an increased sense of smugness. The second one makes it worthwhile. As if I neede anything else to feel smug about.
Finally, the return to booziness deserves a mention. My first night back on the pop was in unfamiliar surroundings, with a group comprising primarily of complete or partial strangers, thereby making intoxication a necessity to bring me at least partially out of my shell. During the course of the evening I consumed three and a half pints of ale of indeterminent strengths, which was an intriguing experience. Ordinarily I don’t really notice the effects that alcohol has on me over the course of an evening as closely as on that night. Normally it’s a matter of starting drinking then staggering homeward in a bleary state. But consuming a comparatively small quantity after so long a period of abstinence brought home the mildly intoxicating feeling that comes after one pint, the feeling of cheer and well being that follows the second and the general smiley demeanour that comes over me afterwards. I wasn’t even that bothered when I missed my bus by seconds and had to shell out an extra fourteen quid to get home. Since then it’s been closer to business as usual – keep drinking ’til you can drink no more, then maybe start on the shots. My tolerance levels don’t seem to have been unduly effected by the absence of binging, though if I’m honest they were never that high to start with (I hide them by the glacial pace I drink at).
That’s that then. You’re mission now is to find the photograph in which I appear in this month’s Nightshift. Answers not through the Contact thing (which might be sorted soon if people have started exchanging emails without my knowledge – if they haven’t, I’ll have to get on to it). Prizes will be non-existent. Night y’all.
